Frederick Chilton woke up. He sat abruptly, startling himself with an electricity he couldn't have known before that night. The scent of blood was still in his nose -- but what was that? A memory? A fabrication? The mingling of dream and horror, a nightmare of titanic proportions.
His face ached with a fading sting, and the culprit hand belonged to James Patrick March. He didn't remember sleeping, yet all evidence pointed to the assertion that he must have. That waking dream, that had been nothing more than a --
"Phantasm," he sputtered. "I had the most terrible..."
He opened his eyes now, fully. Tobacco had replaced the faint smell of copper and brine, a memory he no longer considered to be blood. Chilton had been feeling ill, that much he would admit to; something terrible had been ingested, perhaps. Some agony suffered in his subconscious. But now he was with his good friend March, his kindly and empathetic companion.
Now he was safe.
"I must apologize," he said, quickly, struggling to sit up fully. March's room, he thought. Something must have happened in his own -- a faint? Had he hit his head? Was he concussed? "I really, I don't know what came over me."
Wasn't I in another room? The question lingered on his lips, but he wouldn't ask it. Chilton couldn't be sure of that now, of anything leading up to this precise moment.
"James," he said, the hint of a plea in his voice. "I hate to make a sudden departure -- but I really think I need to get to a hospital."
On his feet, looking for his blue sports coat. How had March found him, he wondered. Passed out? Had someone else reported his circumstance to the man? Chilton measured his breathing, closing his eyes.
He would be at a hospital, sneaking into an ER by the grace of imPort privilege, with no detectable damage to his head. No tests were run on the blood he found staining his shirt.
THIS IS JUST FOR CLOSURE
His face ached with a fading sting, and the culprit hand belonged to James Patrick March. He didn't remember sleeping, yet all evidence pointed to the assertion that he must have. That waking dream, that had been nothing more than a --
"Phantasm," he sputtered. "I had the most terrible..."
He opened his eyes now, fully. Tobacco had replaced the faint smell of copper and brine, a memory he no longer considered to be blood. Chilton had been feeling ill, that much he would admit to; something terrible had been ingested, perhaps. Some agony suffered in his subconscious. But now he was with his good friend March, his kindly and empathetic companion.
Now he was safe.
"I must apologize," he said, quickly, struggling to sit up fully. March's room, he thought. Something must have happened in his own -- a faint? Had he hit his head? Was he concussed? "I really, I don't know what came over me."
Wasn't I in another room? The question lingered on his lips, but he wouldn't ask it. Chilton couldn't be sure of that now, of anything leading up to this precise moment.
"James," he said, the hint of a plea in his voice. "I hate to make a sudden departure -- but I really think I need to get to a hospital."
On his feet, looking for his blue sports coat. How had March found him, he wondered. Passed out? Had someone else reported his circumstance to the man? Chilton measured his breathing, closing his eyes.
He would be at a hospital, sneaking into an ER by the grace of imPort privilege, with no detectable damage to his head. No tests were run on the blood he found staining his shirt.