Broken Path, Starless Tail - 3. Chapter 3

“You look like shit, man.”

“Mr. Reviee, language!” The football coach barked at him and then moved on, having bigger worries than Colby’s rude ass comment. Then again, Colby never cursed and so that just went to show how shitty Beckett looked.

“Let’s get out of here.” Beckett didn’t feel like sitting on the bleachers, and the rest of the football team wasn’t leaving fast enough for him.

“My mom’s home.”

“We can go to my house.” Well, the backyard at least. They had some loungers set up and he could soak up some sun. “You can hose off in the back. I tucked a couple of sodas in a cooler this morning and swiped two bags of chips and cookies.”

“Cookies, chips, and sugary soda? Are you trying to abduct me, sir?” Colby looked fake shocked.

“Oh shut up, like I’m some old guy and you’re some young child. You turn eighteen in three months.” Beckett leveraged himself up off the bleachers, feeling like his joints had locked up. He needed some sun or something, but that didn’t feel great either.

“So you admit I’m still a child for three months, and you’re luring me in with cookies and soda!”

They walked down the bleachers, and Beckett shouldered Colby. “Shut up!”

“You shut up!” Colby shoved him back, one hand pushing against his chest. Beckett winced and gasped, curling his shoulders in and covering his chest with both arms.

“Ouch! Fucking shit, damn!”

“Laund! Language! Don’t think I won’t make you both run laps.”

Beckett narrowed his eyes, raising his hand up to flip off the coach who’d been jogging by the front of the bleachers on the field level. Colby caught his arm. “Stop. He’ll do it.”

He snorted. “How? I’m not even a student here anymore, remember? He can’t make me do squat.”

“No, but he can make me run until you join me because they know you won’t let me suffer in the heat all by myself until I puke or pass out.”

Beckett scowled. Colby was his best friend, and the damn teachers had taken advantage of that fucking fact in order to make him do shit he didn’t want to do. Colby laughed it off, but they’d threaten him to make Beckett cave, and they were sadistic enough assholes to do it too. Well, most of them.

“Let’s just go.” His chest hurt, his stomach didn’t feel good, and he just wanted to go lay down and soak up some sun. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in three days.

They took off down the bleachers, the metal rumbling as they pounded the stairs down to the field and towards the tree line for the shortcut to Beckett’s house.

“You sure you don’t want any?” Colby asked.

Beckett grunted. He was laying on his back on the lounge chair, sprawled out. Eating was too much effort.

“Sure you’re not getting sick?”

Cracking open his eyelids, he rolled his head sideways. “No. I’ve slept like shit since your cat dive bombed me the other night. I’ve got PTPS, once and for all.”

“Ha-ha, you know that’s not funny for people who really have PTSD.”

“Name one person you know with PTSD.” Beckett waited, his eyes closed again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And if they’d been dive bombed and clawed up by your cat, they’d have post-traumatic Parallax syndrome too.”

“Wait, what? Parallax doesn’t claw anyone. He just used his immense size to knock the wind out of you, scare you awake, and make you do his bidding.”

“Apparently that wasn’t enough this time.” Beckett shook his head. “And you should tell your parents to like, clean his feet or his litter or some shit because it fucking hurts.”

Colby’s chair creaked. “Let me see.”

“My scratches? No. Eat your cookies, drink your soda, and relax like a good little captive child.” Beckett’s dad hadn’t come home for lunch, so he was in the clear for at least another three hours. He could nap, and damned if he didn’t want to right then and there.

His shirt was yanked up before he realized what was happening. Beckett sat up, yelling, “Hey!” but Colby didn’t let go of his shirt. His eyes were huge.

“We need to go to my house.”

“What the fuck, man? Let go of my shirt.” Beckett yanked it out of Colby’s hand and covered the raw, red punctures on his chest that he’d swear were growing. But he knew better. They were just healing. Red and warm meant healing to the area.

“You said you weren’t sleeping?” Colby’s question came out as more of a statement.

“Yeah, so?” He was a stomach sleeper and that wasn’t happening.

“Have you had any… dreams?”

Nope. No way. Not going there. “Hard to dream when you’re not sleeping,” Beckett said. He was tired, sore, didn’t feel good, he was not crazy. Not admitting to dreaming about a talking cat who insisted he was really talking to him in his dreams.

“If your chest hurts bad enough you can’t sleep or get into a REM cycle, you should let someone see it.” They both knew that wouldn’t be Beckett’s parents. “Mom took care of that cut on your foot last summer, remember?”

She had. Beckett knew his dad was just tell him that’s what he got for running around barefoot, but Mrs. R just cleaned it, butterflied it, and covered it with a bandage. She even checked on it three days later when he was over for dinner.

“Fine. But later, after my nap.” He didn’t have the energy to walk over to Colby’s house right then.

Colby looked anxious. He checked his phone. “Okay. Yeah. They won’t be home for an hour or so anyway.” He kept staring, fiddling with his phone.

Beckett sighed. “Stop staring and chill out. I’m not even mad your cat attacked me. It’s gonna be fine.”