Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 47

    With a huge rush of relief, Brandon collapsed onto the crisp white duvet of the queen-sized bed. His chest heaved from the exertion of the evening, and his skull throbbed in time with his quick, desperate breaths and his stammering, stuttering heartbeat.

    He hadn't slept well in the van - every little noise battled for his attention, from the constant, soft drone of the radio to the hushed voices of everyone else in the vehicle. After hours of fitful, interrupted sleep, the struggle to climb out of the van, and then finally his doomed attempts to keep up with the group, following them through the lobby and down the hall to his room...it felt as though he had been running for days on end.

    Brandon closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool duvet, hoping to calm the angry, persistent ache inside his head. He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he felt was his wife's hand, gently stroking his shoulder.

    "Brandon? Honey, Liv and I are gonna take the kids to dinner so you can rest, alright? You need some peace and quiet. Go back to sleep, it's alright. Ronnie will be here for you. It's alright. Go back to sleep," she whispered.

    Brandon felt a breath of air on the back of his neck as she kissed the top of his head. He idly considered sitting up to say goodbye, but it seemed to be such a monumental, impossible task, and he couldn't find the energy to move. Pain was starting to build up in earnest inside his head, a deeply uncomfortable sensation almost akin to pressure...as though his brain might explode out of his skull at any moment.

    He listened, motionless, as quiet footsteps bustled around the room. From the hallway, Ammon's voice floated into the room, sad and plaintive: "Mom, can't dad come with us? We'll be good, I promise!"

    Oh, no...they think it's their fault. My babies...I'm sorry...I'm so, so sorry. Brandon could anticipate Tana's answer easily enough - and as a soft jingling announced that his wife was searching for something in her purse, she answered him, her voice strangely distant and distorted.

    "No, dear, he's exhausted. You saw. He just needs to sleep right now, that's all. Besides, he's not ready to eat out, you know - it takes so much effort, and it's too loud, too many people..."

    The door clicked shut, muffling her voice instantly, and he was left alone to ponder the wreckage his life had become. So fucking pathetic. So weak. So useless. An overwhelming, crushing tsunami of guilt and loneliness swept over him, combining with the physical agony in his head, and he dissolved into helpless tears, weeping into the pristine duvet.

    A sudden creak of the mattress springs startled him, and Brandon jerked his head up so quickly that his head spun. He lay there, blinking the stars and salty tears from his bleary eyes as the figure of his best friend slowly swam into focus.

     Ronnie perched on the edge of the bed, watching him. He reached out and brushed Brandon's arm with his fingertips, then sat in silence for another minute, allowing him time to wrestle for his composure. Finally, Brandon sighed, then rested his cheek against the back of his hand on the mattress, staring at the wall, and Ronnie spoke quietly.

    "Bran, hey...what's wrong?"

    A tiny sigh was all Brandon could manage in answer for a long while as he examined the minuscule cracks in the grey and white wallpaper. The horrific pounding inside his skull had only increased since he'd laid down, and concentrating enough to produce coherent words was...nearly impossible. Finally, the wallpaper lines blurred together in the dim light from the lamp by the door, and he closed his eyes, defeated.

    "R-Ron...do I..." Unable to finish the question, Brandon squeezed his eyes shut tightly, rolling onto his back and reaching up to touch his skull lightly with trembling fingers, his jaw fiercely clenched against the pain. Pushing back a rippling wave of nausea, he forced shallow breaths into his lungs.