Adieu

A Terrible Liar (Michayla)

"Yes, Michayla. Get back to bed, and when you wake I will be no more."

"I assure you I'm not actually here, I'm simply a symptom of your affliction and medication."

Michayla couldn't help but let go of a small, breathy laugh. Whatever this incarnation of energy, thoughts, or sickness was, it was not only well dressed and well-spoken, but it also seemed to be self-aware. Reaching out for the offered hand, Mickey half expected her own to phase right through it. Instead, her palm was welcomed by the larger of the two and she was met with an incredible, radiating warmth. It was strange. If he truly was a figment of her imagination or a medically induced illusion, then why did he feel so real to her? So familiar? Turning her chin up towards his voice, her dull, sunken eyes met the luminous depths of the stranger's before she gave him a small smirk.

"I've never once had a dream tell me that it was actually, in any way shape or form, a dream. So either this is one hell of a fever dream or you're a terrible liar," she quipped.

Mickey reached forward then and weakly wrapped her opposing hand around the stranger's wrist, allowing him to all but pull her upright and onto her feet. Finding her legs again and attempting to balance, it appeared that her body had other plans. Digging her nails into his pale skin in attempts to hold herself steady, she once again felt her legs buckle as she fell forward ever so slightly, her shoulder finding and resting against his chest. 'Huh. For an apparition, he's sure sturdy.' she thought to herself. Michayla couldn't help but wonder what this must've looked to someone on the outside looking in. There she was, small, fragile, pajamas slick with sweat and messy brown hair sticking to her face and going in all sorts of different directions. Compared to this entity who was ethereal in its presence and sharp in appearance. With his tailored suit and what appeared to be rather expensive taste in ring-wear, Michayla couldn't help but wonder what he needed to be so nicely dressed for at this time of the morning. Oh, right. He isn't real.

Mickey's thoughts were brought back to the here and now when she felt a reassuring squeeze of her hand and a low voice speak softly beside her ear.

"Please don't cry, the thing I hate most is seeing you cry. I promise I will bring you no harm. Just try and relax and get back to sleep."

Michayla wasn't sure what in that simple phrasing had left her more bewildered. Rather it was his apparent desire to see that she wasn't upset or the fact that he wished her no ill will and that she actually believed him. She absently returned the gentle gesture and gave his hand a quick squeeze as well.

"You apparently know what I look like when I cry. I guess that answers my question, then." Pulling herself back up and willing her weak knees to steady themselves, Michayla held tightly to his hand still, unsure and quaking, and eased herself towards her bed. Once she was sure she was close enough to allow herself to let go without falling on her rear, Mickey hesitantly released the man's hands and eased herself onto her plush mattress, heaving a sigh of relief to no longer have to exert the energy to stand.

"This can't be a dream," she stated simply, eyes now once again focused on the ever oscillating ceiling fan. For a moment she allowed herself to get lost in its rhythmic hum, the steady rotation. Now that she was in the safety of her bed and was no longer at risk of taking a plunge and potentially harming herself even further, Michayla could feel herself slowly begin to drift, her shoulders relaxing and her eyes growing heavy.

Before she was fully lost to the actual dreams that awaited her, Michayla whispered softly, eyes fluttering shut and consciousness escaping her, "And you are a terrible liar."