Story: Jonas (1 of 2)
Title: Jonas
Fandom: Mag 7 - OW
Character(s): JD
Ratings: PG (some violence)
Length: 6,800
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one, everyone was put back in the proper place.
A/N: Thanks to Phyllis for the beta; Kay for the lovely, lovely wall; & Angie and Sue for the shove. The story is also housed at blackraptor.
There was no life in the room. No space for it. Not with all the memories. They crowded out the breath and smothered everything into one tidy dimension. Jonas let his fingertips wander over them since his mind wouldn't.
The memories were his.
Or they should be.
They used to be.
Now. . .
Now, they were just the tactile artifacts of someone he used to be. Someone he forgot.
"Anything?" Buddy asked, watching from the doorway. He had hovered over Jonas constantly from the moment the younger man arrived at the ranch. Jonas thought it should be comforting. He remembered it being comforting; but something felt off. He thought perhaps the secret lay in the year he'd been away from home; a year that was lost with the rest of his memories.
"Sorry," Jonas shook his head; he'd given up trying to will things into being familiar. The daily exercise had become a source of frustration for them both. Jonas picked up a painted tin soldier and perched on the foot of the bed. "Still nothing. Maybe it won't come back."
Buddy entered the room, barely concealing his impatience. He folded his large frame into the small wooden bench that faced a simple desk. "Do you remember anything at all?" he asked, searching Jonas' face intently; just as he did whenever he asked that question.
For the first time, there was a fragment of memory there when Jonas reached for it. "I . . . I remember leaving." He chuckled ruefully to himself. It figured that the first memory to return would be of fleeing in the first place. At Buddy's confused look, Jonas expounded, "When Mamma died, I couldn't stay. It was too much, I had to . . . had to head west."
Buddy scowled at him and Jonas knew he'd said the wrong thing. He'd done that a lot lately, since his illness. That didn't explain the thrill of fear that traced through him; or why it was so important to say the right thing. He just couldn't seem to keep the right answers straight in his head. JD had gone west, Jonas was born there.
"I mean, I just wanted to travel the west," he tried to cover his error.
Still wrong. Buddy's face fell, betraying a flicker of something dark that was smoothed away at once.
"Jonas, you sure you're up for this?" Buddy was trying to handle Jonas again. Jonas hated when he did that. "You been awful sick."
"'m fine," Jonas insisted, but he knew something was wrong. It was there, just past his reach -- an itch he couldn't scratch. "What'd I say wrong?" He hated how small his voice sounded around the question.
Buddy looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to dodge the topic. "You never knew Mamma, Jonas. She died when you were jus' a baby."
He shook his head again, suddenly stubborn on this point. "Yer' lyin', Buddy. I remember. . ." He let the thought trail off, because he didn't remember. That was the whole point to this exercise. He didn't remember anything. His shoulders drooped under the weight of that admission. He had been fighting it for weeks. Now . . . now he was too tired to fight anymore. Jonas told Buddy that. Not the fighting bit. If he said that, Buddy would send Michael around with his medicine. Anything was better than that. Instead, he told Buddy he was tired. Exhausted and frustrated.
Buddy shook his head, sad when he gave Jonas the answer. "You an' Pa had a fight an' then you took off. He died a couple weeks later."
This time it was Buddy giving the wrong answers. Jonas did remember something; he remembered his mother. Out of the moth-eaten cloth that was his brain, he plucked a solid memory -- her hands. They were gentle and warm, rough from hard work and filled with love. If he listened hard enough, Jonas could almost conjure her voice.
But his Pa?
There ought to be something there -- a memory, an emotion, anything.
Jonas had nothing; not even the memory of a fight fierce enough to drive him from home.
Buddy was watching him, and Jonas realized he'd slipped into that faraway place again. He flashed a grin to reassure his brother. The concern really did touch him. There was something honest in the way he ushered Jonas back to the sun porch, admonishing him to go slow. Impatience slipped into his voice though and a darker note Jonas couldn't quite place.
When he bothered to think on it, Jonas could understand his urgency. He'd been gone for a very long time. All the while, his brothers had received no word of his welfare. And when he had turned up at last, he did not know himself. Nor any of them.
Some days, he couldn't decide who was more frustrated by this.
Michael, who was a doctor and claimed to know such things, said that Jonas created an alternate life for himself. Complete with memories of the man he thought he should be. That Jonas had protected himself with this other man, until this JD, had smothered all traces of Jonas.
Jonas thought Buddy's feelings were hurt that he would rather be an orphan from Boston than his brother from Eagle Creek. Jonas wasn't so sure that he wasn't right. JD's life seemed so much more vivid than Jonas'.
More honorable too, though Jonas wasn't supposed to know that.
He wasn't stupid. He could read the tension in Buddy and Sam whenever they had to venture into town; only to ride back in a day later, looking over their shoulders like they expected Satan himself to be leading the posse. Jonas didn't know what they did while they were away, but he was certain it was nothing good.
He wondered sometimes if shame was why he made JD a sheriff. That too he kept to himself.
In fact, he didn't discuss anything of JD with his brothers. When he first came here, when JD was still the greater part of him - he did, at length. And always Michael would come with the bottle of medicine. He fought hard those first weeks, struggling against the combined weight of his older brothers.
Jonas never won. Such wrestling matches ended with the sickly sweet medicine slipping down his throat. And then the dreams came. He would get so lost in them. Drowned in the lives of people he'd never really met. And all the while they were more real to him than his own family.
Sleep was something he'd come to loath. The dark hours of taunting dreams. Dark places where the keys to his past were held just out of reach. Sometimes it was Michael holding his hated bottle that blocked the passage into the light. Other times it was Buddy, his careful concern smothering Jonas. Mostly though, it was men Jonas didn't even remember. They reached out to him, hands just maddeningly beyond reach. He thought they meant something to JD.
Something to him.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Jonas limped into the cozy kitchen with a pleased grin that his aches couldn't stifle.
Patience smiled at him as he eased down next to the soothing heat of the hearth. "Have a good day?" she asked, amused.
"Felt good to ride again," he admitted, stretching his legs out and enjoying the familiar burn in muscles that hadn't quite forgotten life in the saddle.
She brought him a biscuit slathered with honey and butter. "It was quiet around here; got used to the company."
He blushed, the faint color camouflaged by the light kiss of sunburn spread across his nose and cheeks. "Liked bein' outside, is all." Jonas wolfed the biscuit in two bites and glanced about hopefully for more. "Think I might be strong enough to ride to town soon," he said it hopefully.
And there it was. He'd said the wrong thing again.
Patience didn't acknowledge the statement. The old black stove suddenly required all her attention, but there was a tension in her movements that hadn't been there a moment before.
"Eventually," he said, backpedaling for all he was worth. "When Buddy and Sam go."
"Go where?" Buddy asked from the doorway. He entered the kitchen, kicking mud from his boots. Sam was hot on his heels.
"To town," Jonas answered before he thought better of it.
"Maybe when you're stronger," Buddy said, dismissing Jonas like he always did. That stung Jonas' pride. He was no babe in swaddling clothes; he'd gotten along just fine without his older brothers during the months on his own.
"I'm fine!" he insisted, adding a hearty exclamation to his declaration. "Just haven't been anywhere in weeks. If I don't get out of here soon, I'm gonna go stir crazy." He grinned at both of them to show he just had cabin fever and nothing more.
Buddy smiled back; indulgent, but unbending. "Kid--"
Jonas did an admirable job of hanging onto his smile. Buddy's voice never sounded right around that particular word.
His brother didn't notice the momentary slip. "--you didn't exactly leave the towns 'round here with a favorable impression. Matter of fact, only reason we got to bring you home is 'cause we promised the sheriff over in Four Corners that you wouldn't be back. Ever."
"Don't have to go to Four Corners," Jonas started, his grin fading. He couldn't name it, but there was something about that town that drew him. "You and Sam. . ."
"Can take care of ourselves," Sam cut in sharply. He gave his younger brother a hard look until Jonas dropped his gaze to the floor. Jonas always found himself unsettled in Sam's presence; there was an undercurrent of anger that simmered behind every word and look sent in his direction. A vague memory of violence lingered uneasily nearby.
"Just a supply run," Jonas mumbled.
"I said no," Buddy snapped, his tone putting an end to the discussion.
"And I say out," Patience shooed. "Go on and wash up." She flapped her apron at them as though she was chasing chickens. "Jonas, go call Michael down."
"Yes'm," Jonas answered, automatically.
Jonas climbed the stairs slowly, the argument still chaffing him. It wasn't as though he wanted to leave the ranch again. No, the ranch was home; even if home didn't quite fit anymore. Jonas was just bored; crawling out of his skin with it. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was supposed to be something more -- anything more.
Michael had finally allowed him to tagalong while Buddy and Sam checked miles of fence. That simple boon had left Jonas beside himself with joy. He had relished every minute of it; finding freedom in the saddle and open air. Roughhousing with Buddy had seemed almost normal; and even Sam had been warmer out there on the range.
Before his long awaited parole, there had been plenty of chores to do around the homestead. Jonas helped Patience wherever he could without getting in the way. Some of the simplest farm tasks were completely foreign to him, but Patience had lived up to her name and calmly banished him to the gardens. Tending the massive plot that fed the household wasn't Jonas' idea of fun; especially when compared to riding. Still, he chipped in cheerfully, attacking every new task assigned to him ferociously.
Jonas welcomed the heavy chores. Physical exhaustion kept him from dreaming. He was getting better, barely an episode in weeks . . . at least during the daylight hours. At night though, when the house was heavy and still, Jonas dreamed another man's life. He woke empty and alone, yearning for something that didn't exist.
He was careful to never mention the dreams to his brothers. He told Patience about them once. She had given him an abrupt hug and whispered a cryptic message about holding on to the truth in his ear. That night the dreams had been worse than ever before. Jonas didn't speak of the dreams again.
Even with the happy life he was settling into, it wasn't enough. When Buddy brought home the odd dime novel, Jonas devoured them. Relishing the adventure, and scoffing at the lack of realism. "That's not how it happened,” he declared one day, denouncing a particularly bloody battle. "Chris'd be real angry if he read this.”
Who Chris was, he didn't know. The hero had been the ridiculously named Sierra Lightening. But Buddy had got that faintly panicked look in his eye. The look Jonas hadn't seen since his illness. It was an expression that was usually followed by Michael and medicine.
"I mean, I sure would be if they wrote this garbage about me. Who'd ever let the bad guys get the high ground on 'em on purpose? Just don't make no sense.” Why he knew that it didn't make sense was another matter. But the answer seemed to satisfy Buddy. That was the last of the dime novels though. Jonas told himself they weren't really that exciting, and he didn't really miss them.
The door of Michael's study swung open startling Jonas. He blushed, sheepish at being caught woolgathering. "Dinner's on," he told his brother.
"Good." Michael smiled. "I'm starving." He caught Jonas' arm as he turned back toward the staircase. "I'll pour your medicine. You may as well take it before dinner." There was firm scolding in his tone that told Jonas he wouldn't hesitate to call Buddy and Sam if need be. Jonas followed Michael into his study, shoulders slumped. It had been a long time since Buddy or Sam's presence had been needed.
Michael filled a small tumbler with a draught of viscous green syrup. He handed the glass to Jonas who slugged it down in one go. It burned his tongue and throat, before spreading warm numbness through his head. Jonas made a show of shuddering at the taste.
"Does Sam hate me?" he asked, surprised at the question that popped unbidden from his mouth.
Michael's pause told Jonas more than his words did. "He doesn't hate you, Jonas. It's just Sam's way."
That was a lie. Jonas had found another memory. It was of Sam, his face twisted with hate -- striking Jonas over and over. The scent of mud and blood mixed with spring grasses. Someone screaming. . . The memory was laced with the same hazy tar that swallowed everything from his life before. There was danger in the half-memory and something terribly important.
Jonas trailed after Michael, trying to fight the drowsy warmth that was replacing his brains with cotton. He had to hang onto the memory of Sam; there was more to it if he could just clear his head. The nagging worry got lost in the din of the evening meal.
"Jonas thinks he's ready for town," Sam announced once the blessings were said and food had been served.
"That's not a good idea," Michael said firmly. "Maybe when you're stronger."
Hearing the same excuse frustrated Jonas. "Can take care of myself, you know," he announced loudly. "Did just fine on my own."
"Sure you did," Michael snapped. "Matter of fact, you were doing such a good job of it, that the sheriff in Four Corners had you locked up tight and was just itching to pack you off to Yuma. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you in prison?" He was yelling by the end of his outburst. "You could have been killed."
"Didn't you ever stop and think how worried we must have been? No, 'course you didn't. All you ever think about is yourself. Damn it, Jonas. I love you, but you're a selfish bastard." Stunned silence filled the dining room. Michael stared at Jonas as though seeing him for the first time, his face drained of color. The others exchanged looks over Jonas' head. Michael shoved his chair back from the table and tossed his napkin on his plate. He stormed out of the dining room, retreating to the sanctuary of his office.
When he was gone, Jonas raised his gaze from his plate. He looked to Buddy, but found no support there. "I am sorry," he finally said in a small voice. "I don't even remember what I did. I've tried. I really have. But it's just not there." He was dangerously close to crying, but he didn't care.
"I know you were worried. But I really was okay. I think. Just want everything to be normal again. I want to make Michael happy. But I can't. I don't…” He was frantic, hyperventilating and damned near blubbering. It was wrong. All wrong.
Buddy's concerned features blurred, then sharpened. His lips formed words that echoed through Jonas's head like thunder. "JD are you -?”
"Wrong,” Jonas moaned. Darkness coiled around him, dragging him down into a writhing void. The name Buddy had called was his. And it wasn't. And he finally gave into the nothingness.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Part two can be found here.
Fandom: Mag 7 - OW
Character(s): JD
Ratings: PG (some violence)
Length: 6,800
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one, everyone was put back in the proper place.
A/N: Thanks to Phyllis for the beta; Kay for the lovely, lovely wall; & Angie and Sue for the shove. The story is also housed at blackraptor.
There was no life in the room. No space for it. Not with all the memories. They crowded out the breath and smothered everything into one tidy dimension. Jonas let his fingertips wander over them since his mind wouldn't.
The memories were his.
Or they should be.
They used to be.
Now. . .
Now, they were just the tactile artifacts of someone he used to be. Someone he forgot.
"Anything?" Buddy asked, watching from the doorway. He had hovered over Jonas constantly from the moment the younger man arrived at the ranch. Jonas thought it should be comforting. He remembered it being comforting; but something felt off. He thought perhaps the secret lay in the year he'd been away from home; a year that was lost with the rest of his memories.
"Sorry," Jonas shook his head; he'd given up trying to will things into being familiar. The daily exercise had become a source of frustration for them both. Jonas picked up a painted tin soldier and perched on the foot of the bed. "Still nothing. Maybe it won't come back."
Buddy entered the room, barely concealing his impatience. He folded his large frame into the small wooden bench that faced a simple desk. "Do you remember anything at all?" he asked, searching Jonas' face intently; just as he did whenever he asked that question.
For the first time, there was a fragment of memory there when Jonas reached for it. "I . . . I remember leaving." He chuckled ruefully to himself. It figured that the first memory to return would be of fleeing in the first place. At Buddy's confused look, Jonas expounded, "When Mamma died, I couldn't stay. It was too much, I had to . . . had to head west."
Buddy scowled at him and Jonas knew he'd said the wrong thing. He'd done that a lot lately, since his illness. That didn't explain the thrill of fear that traced through him; or why it was so important to say the right thing. He just couldn't seem to keep the right answers straight in his head. JD had gone west, Jonas was born there.
"I mean, I just wanted to travel the west," he tried to cover his error.
Still wrong. Buddy's face fell, betraying a flicker of something dark that was smoothed away at once.
"Jonas, you sure you're up for this?" Buddy was trying to handle Jonas again. Jonas hated when he did that. "You been awful sick."
"'m fine," Jonas insisted, but he knew something was wrong. It was there, just past his reach -- an itch he couldn't scratch. "What'd I say wrong?" He hated how small his voice sounded around the question.
Buddy looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to dodge the topic. "You never knew Mamma, Jonas. She died when you were jus' a baby."
He shook his head again, suddenly stubborn on this point. "Yer' lyin', Buddy. I remember. . ." He let the thought trail off, because he didn't remember. That was the whole point to this exercise. He didn't remember anything. His shoulders drooped under the weight of that admission. He had been fighting it for weeks. Now . . . now he was too tired to fight anymore. Jonas told Buddy that. Not the fighting bit. If he said that, Buddy would send Michael around with his medicine. Anything was better than that. Instead, he told Buddy he was tired. Exhausted and frustrated.
Buddy shook his head, sad when he gave Jonas the answer. "You an' Pa had a fight an' then you took off. He died a couple weeks later."
This time it was Buddy giving the wrong answers. Jonas did remember something; he remembered his mother. Out of the moth-eaten cloth that was his brain, he plucked a solid memory -- her hands. They were gentle and warm, rough from hard work and filled with love. If he listened hard enough, Jonas could almost conjure her voice.
But his Pa?
There ought to be something there -- a memory, an emotion, anything.
Jonas had nothing; not even the memory of a fight fierce enough to drive him from home.
Buddy was watching him, and Jonas realized he'd slipped into that faraway place again. He flashed a grin to reassure his brother. The concern really did touch him. There was something honest in the way he ushered Jonas back to the sun porch, admonishing him to go slow. Impatience slipped into his voice though and a darker note Jonas couldn't quite place.
When he bothered to think on it, Jonas could understand his urgency. He'd been gone for a very long time. All the while, his brothers had received no word of his welfare. And when he had turned up at last, he did not know himself. Nor any of them.
Some days, he couldn't decide who was more frustrated by this.
Michael, who was a doctor and claimed to know such things, said that Jonas created an alternate life for himself. Complete with memories of the man he thought he should be. That Jonas had protected himself with this other man, until this JD, had smothered all traces of Jonas.
Jonas thought Buddy's feelings were hurt that he would rather be an orphan from Boston than his brother from Eagle Creek. Jonas wasn't so sure that he wasn't right. JD's life seemed so much more vivid than Jonas'.
More honorable too, though Jonas wasn't supposed to know that.
He wasn't stupid. He could read the tension in Buddy and Sam whenever they had to venture into town; only to ride back in a day later, looking over their shoulders like they expected Satan himself to be leading the posse. Jonas didn't know what they did while they were away, but he was certain it was nothing good.
He wondered sometimes if shame was why he made JD a sheriff. That too he kept to himself.
In fact, he didn't discuss anything of JD with his brothers. When he first came here, when JD was still the greater part of him - he did, at length. And always Michael would come with the bottle of medicine. He fought hard those first weeks, struggling against the combined weight of his older brothers.
Jonas never won. Such wrestling matches ended with the sickly sweet medicine slipping down his throat. And then the dreams came. He would get so lost in them. Drowned in the lives of people he'd never really met. And all the while they were more real to him than his own family.
Sleep was something he'd come to loath. The dark hours of taunting dreams. Dark places where the keys to his past were held just out of reach. Sometimes it was Michael holding his hated bottle that blocked the passage into the light. Other times it was Buddy, his careful concern smothering Jonas. Mostly though, it was men Jonas didn't even remember. They reached out to him, hands just maddeningly beyond reach. He thought they meant something to JD.
Something to him.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Jonas limped into the cozy kitchen with a pleased grin that his aches couldn't stifle.
Patience smiled at him as he eased down next to the soothing heat of the hearth. "Have a good day?" she asked, amused.
"Felt good to ride again," he admitted, stretching his legs out and enjoying the familiar burn in muscles that hadn't quite forgotten life in the saddle.
She brought him a biscuit slathered with honey and butter. "It was quiet around here; got used to the company."
He blushed, the faint color camouflaged by the light kiss of sunburn spread across his nose and cheeks. "Liked bein' outside, is all." Jonas wolfed the biscuit in two bites and glanced about hopefully for more. "Think I might be strong enough to ride to town soon," he said it hopefully.
And there it was. He'd said the wrong thing again.
Patience didn't acknowledge the statement. The old black stove suddenly required all her attention, but there was a tension in her movements that hadn't been there a moment before.
"Eventually," he said, backpedaling for all he was worth. "When Buddy and Sam go."
"Go where?" Buddy asked from the doorway. He entered the kitchen, kicking mud from his boots. Sam was hot on his heels.
"To town," Jonas answered before he thought better of it.
"Maybe when you're stronger," Buddy said, dismissing Jonas like he always did. That stung Jonas' pride. He was no babe in swaddling clothes; he'd gotten along just fine without his older brothers during the months on his own.
"I'm fine!" he insisted, adding a hearty exclamation to his declaration. "Just haven't been anywhere in weeks. If I don't get out of here soon, I'm gonna go stir crazy." He grinned at both of them to show he just had cabin fever and nothing more.
Buddy smiled back; indulgent, but unbending. "Kid--"
Jonas did an admirable job of hanging onto his smile. Buddy's voice never sounded right around that particular word.
His brother didn't notice the momentary slip. "--you didn't exactly leave the towns 'round here with a favorable impression. Matter of fact, only reason we got to bring you home is 'cause we promised the sheriff over in Four Corners that you wouldn't be back. Ever."
"Don't have to go to Four Corners," Jonas started, his grin fading. He couldn't name it, but there was something about that town that drew him. "You and Sam. . ."
"Can take care of ourselves," Sam cut in sharply. He gave his younger brother a hard look until Jonas dropped his gaze to the floor. Jonas always found himself unsettled in Sam's presence; there was an undercurrent of anger that simmered behind every word and look sent in his direction. A vague memory of violence lingered uneasily nearby.
"Just a supply run," Jonas mumbled.
"I said no," Buddy snapped, his tone putting an end to the discussion.
"And I say out," Patience shooed. "Go on and wash up." She flapped her apron at them as though she was chasing chickens. "Jonas, go call Michael down."
"Yes'm," Jonas answered, automatically.
Jonas climbed the stairs slowly, the argument still chaffing him. It wasn't as though he wanted to leave the ranch again. No, the ranch was home; even if home didn't quite fit anymore. Jonas was just bored; crawling out of his skin with it. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was supposed to be something more -- anything more.
Michael had finally allowed him to tagalong while Buddy and Sam checked miles of fence. That simple boon had left Jonas beside himself with joy. He had relished every minute of it; finding freedom in the saddle and open air. Roughhousing with Buddy had seemed almost normal; and even Sam had been warmer out there on the range.
Before his long awaited parole, there had been plenty of chores to do around the homestead. Jonas helped Patience wherever he could without getting in the way. Some of the simplest farm tasks were completely foreign to him, but Patience had lived up to her name and calmly banished him to the gardens. Tending the massive plot that fed the household wasn't Jonas' idea of fun; especially when compared to riding. Still, he chipped in cheerfully, attacking every new task assigned to him ferociously.
Jonas welcomed the heavy chores. Physical exhaustion kept him from dreaming. He was getting better, barely an episode in weeks . . . at least during the daylight hours. At night though, when the house was heavy and still, Jonas dreamed another man's life. He woke empty and alone, yearning for something that didn't exist.
He was careful to never mention the dreams to his brothers. He told Patience about them once. She had given him an abrupt hug and whispered a cryptic message about holding on to the truth in his ear. That night the dreams had been worse than ever before. Jonas didn't speak of the dreams again.
Even with the happy life he was settling into, it wasn't enough. When Buddy brought home the odd dime novel, Jonas devoured them. Relishing the adventure, and scoffing at the lack of realism. "That's not how it happened,” he declared one day, denouncing a particularly bloody battle. "Chris'd be real angry if he read this.”
Who Chris was, he didn't know. The hero had been the ridiculously named Sierra Lightening. But Buddy had got that faintly panicked look in his eye. The look Jonas hadn't seen since his illness. It was an expression that was usually followed by Michael and medicine.
"I mean, I sure would be if they wrote this garbage about me. Who'd ever let the bad guys get the high ground on 'em on purpose? Just don't make no sense.” Why he knew that it didn't make sense was another matter. But the answer seemed to satisfy Buddy. That was the last of the dime novels though. Jonas told himself they weren't really that exciting, and he didn't really miss them.
The door of Michael's study swung open startling Jonas. He blushed, sheepish at being caught woolgathering. "Dinner's on," he told his brother.
"Good." Michael smiled. "I'm starving." He caught Jonas' arm as he turned back toward the staircase. "I'll pour your medicine. You may as well take it before dinner." There was firm scolding in his tone that told Jonas he wouldn't hesitate to call Buddy and Sam if need be. Jonas followed Michael into his study, shoulders slumped. It had been a long time since Buddy or Sam's presence had been needed.
Michael filled a small tumbler with a draught of viscous green syrup. He handed the glass to Jonas who slugged it down in one go. It burned his tongue and throat, before spreading warm numbness through his head. Jonas made a show of shuddering at the taste.
"Does Sam hate me?" he asked, surprised at the question that popped unbidden from his mouth.
Michael's pause told Jonas more than his words did. "He doesn't hate you, Jonas. It's just Sam's way."
That was a lie. Jonas had found another memory. It was of Sam, his face twisted with hate -- striking Jonas over and over. The scent of mud and blood mixed with spring grasses. Someone screaming. . . The memory was laced with the same hazy tar that swallowed everything from his life before. There was danger in the half-memory and something terribly important.
Jonas trailed after Michael, trying to fight the drowsy warmth that was replacing his brains with cotton. He had to hang onto the memory of Sam; there was more to it if he could just clear his head. The nagging worry got lost in the din of the evening meal.
"Jonas thinks he's ready for town," Sam announced once the blessings were said and food had been served.
"That's not a good idea," Michael said firmly. "Maybe when you're stronger."
Hearing the same excuse frustrated Jonas. "Can take care of myself, you know," he announced loudly. "Did just fine on my own."
"Sure you did," Michael snapped. "Matter of fact, you were doing such a good job of it, that the sheriff in Four Corners had you locked up tight and was just itching to pack you off to Yuma. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you in prison?" He was yelling by the end of his outburst. "You could have been killed."
"Didn't you ever stop and think how worried we must have been? No, 'course you didn't. All you ever think about is yourself. Damn it, Jonas. I love you, but you're a selfish bastard." Stunned silence filled the dining room. Michael stared at Jonas as though seeing him for the first time, his face drained of color. The others exchanged looks over Jonas' head. Michael shoved his chair back from the table and tossed his napkin on his plate. He stormed out of the dining room, retreating to the sanctuary of his office.
When he was gone, Jonas raised his gaze from his plate. He looked to Buddy, but found no support there. "I am sorry," he finally said in a small voice. "I don't even remember what I did. I've tried. I really have. But it's just not there." He was dangerously close to crying, but he didn't care.
"I know you were worried. But I really was okay. I think. Just want everything to be normal again. I want to make Michael happy. But I can't. I don't…” He was frantic, hyperventilating and damned near blubbering. It was wrong. All wrong.
Buddy's concerned features blurred, then sharpened. His lips formed words that echoed through Jonas's head like thunder. "JD are you -?”
"Wrong,” Jonas moaned. Darkness coiled around him, dragging him down into a writhing void. The name Buddy had called was his. And it wasn't. And he finally gave into the nothingness.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Part two can be found here.