Troubles

New Bed

I wake up out of breath. I have the feeling I might have dreamed something bad, but I can't remember it. I remember dreaming about some...thing. I dreamed about something before I dreamed of the thing that make me wake up, but I can't remember it now.

Oh well.

I sit up and look around, noticing that things are pretty much the way they were last night. Brian and I watched some horror movie and early decided we were both pretty tired.
Maybe the horror movie is the reason for my sudden awakening. I don't really think so, but it might be.

Oh well.

I kick off the covers and go to the bathroom to clean up. When I leave the bathroom again, I still feel a bit out of breath. It must've been some pretty extreme dream, since I'm still so affected by it. Maybe I dreamed about running; or being late for class; or failing an exam.
I freeze halfway down the hall.

Oh shit!

I forgot the assignment. We were supposed to hand it in Wednesday. I remember Mikey told me. He told me Tuesday that it had been moved up because of Thanksgiving. I remember I thought it was stupid, because Thanksgiving is so predictable, but I also just...forgot.
I forgot about it. I completely sweat it out. The one assignment during high school that I finally thought I was gonna ace; the assignment I had all planned out in my head; the assignment that was just waiting to be written: I forgot it.

I rush back to the living room and find my backpack. I rummage through it to find my notepad and a pen, but the notepad isn't there. Where is it? I had it right there. It was right here. I'm so fucking sure of it. Where the fuck is it? It's supposed to be here!

“Shit,” I mutter, tossing my bag on the floor and looking around the room. My notepad has to be here. It has to!
“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice shakier this time. I look around the room again, trying to find any paper at all. I spot a newspaper. There's a few pieces of paper on the coffee table, but they all look like letters.

There's no paper around. I don't even spot a pen.
A pen.

I quickly pick my bag back up and go through hurriedly and clumsily it to find my pencil or any pen I might've dropped down there or anything at all to just write with. I find my pencil quickly.

I sit down on the couch, slowly.

I let my backpack fall out of my grasp. It falls onto the floor with a heavy thumb. I let my eyes lazily scan the room. I already know there's no paper in here.

I already know I've flunked the assignment. I didn't hand it in, so I can't pass. I might fail the class because of it. I might have to retake a whole class; maybe even the whole year. I could flunk out of high school. I could get kicked out because of my poor grade average. I could risk not graduating at all.
I'm gonna lose everything.

I draw in a sudden breath when Brian sits down beside me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and when I look into his eyes, he looks worried.

I open my mouth, and I notice the slime sticking to my lips, creating bars between them.

I close my mouth again and moist my lips.

“What's going on?” Brian asks softly – caring – as I swallow down the lump in my throat. I glance down at my pencil in my hands, and then look back up at him.

“I,” I let out, my throat rough from just waking up and getting a bit... upset.
“I'm,” I say, quickly swallowing, “gonna fail.” I press away the tears.
Brian frowns briefly, worry written all over his face.
“I didn't do an assignment. We were supposed to hand it in before Thanksgiving and it's a big part of our final grade, and I didn't do it. I forgot,” I squeeze out the last few words, before I take in a sudden breath. It scratches against my throat and makes my eyes water, but even so, I take another sudden breath.

And that does it for me. I can't hold the tears back any longer. I avert my eyes, looking down into my lap, and close them as the first two tears escape each eye. I fold my hands in my lap, pressing them together to keep myself from losing it more than I already have, and it seems to work.

“Frank,” Brian sighs. It hurts to hear the disappointment in his voice. I really screwed up.
“Don't do this. It's not your fault.”
I calm down, letting my hands break apart a little and relaxing my eyes.
“You can't expect yourself to give a 100 percent after what you've been through. You've held it together for 7 months. That's a long time, Frank. That's a,” he pauses briefly, sighing lightly, “an incredibly long time. Way too long. It's more than understandable that you missed one assignment.”
I look up at him.

“But it counts for 15 percent of my grade,” I whine, sounding so pathetic. I look down in embarrassment, feeling like a 5-year-old.

“Frank.”
I sigh heavily, feeling like my chest can't get any heavier or hollower. I feel like such and utter failure. I'm such a complete fuck-up. Everything is so fucked up right now. I can't control anything; not even school; not even a stupid paper. I can't do anything right.
“I'll talk to the school. They'll understand.”
I look up.

“No!” I yell, turning my head to face him.
“They can't know. They'll kick me out. They'll call someone who'll come and take me away.” Another tear rolls down my cheek.
“I have to finish high school. I need to stay.”

Brian shakes his head and a feeling of rejection rushes through me, but Brian quickly pulls me into a hug before that feeling can settle.
I silently let my tears just run down my cheeks. I don't sob or cry; I just let out the tears, hoping the misery will follow them.

“You'll stay here. I promise. You'll stay here.”
I hug Brian back – tight.

-----

“You need to put those two together,” Brian says, pointing at two pieces of plywood while carefully studying the manual. I cough, the dust from the wood scratching dryly against my throat, and try to figure out how the two fit together.
“No, wait.” I stop what I'm doing, looking at Brian with big eyes.

I hate putting together furniture. I've never done it before, but during these past 15 minutes or so, I've come to the conclusion that I hate putting together furniture. I think Brian agrees with me.

“Dammit, stupid shit, mother of shit,” he mumbles to himself, picking up a screw and holding it against a picture in the manual. I put down the two pieces of plywood, coughing into my sleeve. I'm considering cracking open a window to get all this sawdust out of the room, but it's freezing outside.
“Okay.” I jump.
“You take this,” Brian says and hands me the manual, “and go grab a beer and a soda out of the fridge. I'll go get two guitars and I'll meet you on the living room. Maybe we can jam ourselves out of this mess,” he finishes, sticking his tongue out of his mouth, sighing and rolling his eyes, before he gets up and leaves the room. I giggle quietly, before getting up and doing as he said.

When I've left the room that used to be Brian's office and will soon be my bedroom, I cough harshly, trying to get the dust out of my lungs and throat. It actually works.

On my way from the kitchen to the living room, I take a quick sniff of the beer. It smells a bit like sour socks, but it has this aroma to it that I can't quite explain, other than it makes it smell good.

“Hep,” Brian calls, taking the beer out of my hand as I jump from the shock.
“Mine,” he says, walking past me with a guitar in his one hand and the beer in the other, drinking from the latter. I follow him to the couch where another guitar is lying, waiting for me. I gently pick it up and sit down, running my fingertips over the strings and feeling them vibrate tenderly.

Brian starts playing next to me, his beer now on the table and replaced by a pick in his hand. He strums the string like a pro, his fingers moving effortlessly over the neck of the guitar.

I just sit there and listen, not wanting to join in and ruin his solo. While I sit there, I can't help but smile as I think about how comfortable it feels. I think I can get used to this.

-----

I lie in my bed. I've got the covers tucked in close to my body. It's cold in here, but it's better than the smell and dust from the wood; the wood that is currently my bed.

I smile again. I smile every time I think about it: I have a bed again – my very own bed. It's been 7 months since I last had my own bed.

Actually, it's getting close to 8 months now, but I guess I can stop counting. I'm not homeless anymore. I've got a bed. And according to Brian, I also have a home now.

I smile wide, closing my eyes and feeling more safe than I could even imagine.
♠ ♠ ♠
I know it's kinda sappy. But hey, that's good right? He's finally happy!
But will he stay that way? =O
Oh me, oh my, I'm so dramatic. =P
And a good piece of information: going to an MCR concert alone is F'n awesome!! =D