Chapter fourteen – Sick

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-September 5, 1987-

"Michael, it's for you!" I call from the telephone. The police have been in contact again, with more news, but they want to tell Michael what it is first, "Michael!"

It's only 6:45am; the telephone ringing is what woke me up this morning. I would have happily stayed asleep for another hour or so. But no ... the police simply had to call this early in the morning.

"What?" Michael's voice finally breaks the silence in the hallway. He sounds weak though ... almost like he's sick. I'm going to have to go upstairs and get him myself, aren't I?

"Please hold," I speak down the phone, resting it on the side and heading up the stairs to Michael. Arriving at his room, I open the door to find him in bed, looking paler than a sheet of paper – no exaggeration, "Michael ... what's wrong?"

His eyes remain closed; he doesn't move a single muscle, "Citria ... I think I've got some sort of bug. I feel awful ... " he answers limply.

Terrific, Michael's sick. Just what we needed. Poor guy ...

"The police are on the phone Michael. They have an update on the investigation," I inform him softly, "What should I tell them?"

He groans softly, covering his face with both hands, "Please tell them to ring back later ... or get them to tell you what they want to say, and then you can tell me. I don't know ... " he suggests quietly.

"Okay Michael. I'll come back up in a few minutes, alright?" A look of sympathy spreads across my face.

"Okay ... " He nods with his reply to clarify his answer.

I make my way back downstairs, getting back to the phone and placing it to my ear, "Yeah, uhm ... Mr Jackson can't make it right now. Can I take a message?" I offer politely.

"Yes," the officer replies, "Could you tell Mr Jackson that we've managed to investigate all the other bodies found at the scene of the crime, and we've been able to successfully identify bullet wounds in everyone. The only suspicious part is that one of the bodies' bullet wounds were located in a different area to everyone else's," he explains, "That, and we found a piece of evidence that pretty much gives away who was behind everyone's murders."

"Oh God ... " I murmur, "What did you find?"

"After investigating the scene of the crime yesterday, we were able to recover a tape recorder, with a recording on. When Mr Jackson is available, we would like to play you the recording, if that's convenient."

A deep breath can't help but escape my lips, "Of course. As soon as Mr Jackson is available, he'll get in touch. You've been most kind," I say nervously.

"Alright. We'll be in touch. Good day, Miss Espinosa."

"Good day ... " I reply, hanging up the phone and setting it back on its receiver. My finger and thumb punch the bridge of my nose, "My God ... "

"Citria!" My little quiet time is interrupted when I hear Michael's desperate calls from upstairs, "Citria!"

Making my way upstairs, I think of the possible things Michael could be calling for. Does he want something? Need something? Is he in trouble? I guess I'll find out in a second. Once I'm upstairs, I enter Michael's room, seeing him in the same position as I left him in.

"Michael ... are you alright?" I ask sadly.

His breathing has become heavier, and he's sweating like God knows what, now. It's the worst I've seen him, health-wise.

"N-No ... I'm not ... " he answers, his voice taking on a deeper register than I'm used to because he's sick, "I-I need to move, but I feel so nauseous ... and if I move too much, I feel like I'll throw up ... " He lets out a sickly groan, burying himself under the blankets.

"Michael, I think you should take the blanket off; you're already sweating, and it's Summer. It'll make you worse ... " I try to pull the blanket off of him, but he pulls it back his way, "Seriously Michael ... "

"I need it," he states, "What did the police say, anyway? ... " His attempt at changing the subject causes me to giggle a little, so he puts a steady focus on it, "Was it bad, at all? ... "

Should I really tell him what I just heard, when he's so sick? Would that be mean of me? Maybe I should tell him when he's back on his feet, and feeling better again. That would, perhaps, be better than telling him now.

"I'll tell you everything when you're okay again," I answer after a few moments contemplation, "It's for your own health, you know."

He then unburies himself from the blanket, opening his eyes, "Lord, that's bright!" he cries, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and whimpering softly, "And Citria ... please tell me ... "

I shake my head firmly, backing up my answer, "No, Michael. You're sick; you won't be able to cope with it as well ... " I tell him, "Now, we'll stay in today and I'll look after you, okay?"

He uncovers his face, closing his eyes tightly and groaning again, "Fine ... I feel too nauseous to argue ... " He takes a deep breath, but then snaps his eyes open, "Citria, I-I'm gonna throw up." He seems to panic a little, jumping off the bed and dashing out the room.

"Oh God ... " I frown, following the sound of his footsteps to the bathroom. Once I arrive there, his head is hanging over the toilet. He isn't throwing up yet, but he's gone paler than I've ever seen him; he's retching a little, and his breathing is heavy, "Michael ... I'm here; it's okay ... "

He gives a small groan, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth, "I know it's gonna happen ... why can't I just get it over with? ... " he asks weakly. Then, he retches loudly, before finally bringing up the contents of his stomach.

I'm here for him the entire time. I lift his hair out his face so he doesn't get anything in it, and pat his back comfortingly, "It's okay Michael ... it's just a bug ... it won't last so long ... you just need to relax ... "

Why I'm saying this, I don't know; he probably can't even hear me or pay attention to what I've just said. Poor guy ... this must be awful for him.

Hold on a second ... if this bug is catching, I'll get it too. Oh, damn. If I get it, I won't be able to look after Michael whilst he stays here. That's my main concern ...

Once Michael is finished, he lifts his head from the toilet, wiping his mouth, "Ugh ... I forgot how awful this is ... " he says, his voice deep, "Man, I hope this isn't catching ... "

"Don't worry about that, Michael. Just go to bed, okay? I'll bring a bucket or something, just in case you feel like throwing up again," I reply calmly.

"Thanks ... " he mumbles, "Can I brush my teeth? The taste in my mouth is horrible ... " he adds.

I nod, taking his toothbrush from the toothbrush holder, "Sure. But then go straight to bed ... okay? It'll do you good if you do."

He takes the brush from my hand, nodding at my instructions. Then, with my help, he gets up from the floor, before sitting on the side of the bathtub, leaning his arms on the sink as he puts toothpaste on his brush and begins to clean his teeth. I can tell he's struggling to do it, so I take the brush from his hand.

"Wha—" he starts, his voice muffled due to the amount of toothpaste in his mouth.

However, before he can even finish pronouncing the word, I place the brush back in his mouth, brushing his teeth for him.

"Open wider," I say softly, smiling down at him, "That's it. Almost done now." After finishing his teeth for him, I remove the brush from his mouth, "Spit," I instruct playfully, so he complies. "There. Now, go back to bed. Need me? I'll be in the house somewhere. I'll just need to get a receptacle in case you need to be sick again."

He nods, rising from his seat on the bathtub, "Okay ... thank you," he answers, wiping his mouth on the towel on the towel holder, to rid the toothpaste from around his mouth.

I help him walk back to his bedroom; getting him in bed and tucking him in the blanket. I know it's Summer, but he said himself that he "needs" the blanket, so I guess he can choose whether or not he has it on.

Once he's settled in bed, I stroke his curls gently, "Now ... I'll go find a container of some sort. I'll be back in a few minutes. Call me if you need anything," I instruct softly, letting my fingers slip through his hair and walking out the room, before starting a search for a receptacle.

It takes me a few minutes before I decide to search in the cleaning supplies cupboard – which is actually the most obvious place. Eventually, I find a bucket, "Ah, here," I say to myself. "This'll do nicely." I make the short trek back up the stairs, arriving back in Michael's room, "Here. Use this if you need to."

I hand it to him, then he gives me a sickly smile, "Thanks. I feel like I'm gonna be using this a lot today ... " he murmurs. He throws his head back against the pillow, "I feel so bad ... " he complains hopelessly, "I hope to God that you won't get this ... "

"Michael," I set my hand lightly on his, "Don't even start to worry about me, when you're practically on your deathbed. You look paler than ... well, I don't know, but I've never seen anyone so pale as you right now, Michael. Get some rest." My hand rises up to meet his sweating forehead, wiping some of it away for him.

He closes his eyes, resting them, letting out another groan, "Please let this go quickly ... " he speaks wearily, "I can't bear it ... " His breathing increases volume, but slows down significantly, "I'm constantly wondering when I'll next throw up ... " he adds.

"Don't think about it," I suggest, "Just concentrate on getting yourself better – rest Michael; it'll do you good." I lightly place a kiss on his forehead, not caring that it's sweating badly, before pulling away and leaving the room, so he can rest.

What can I do for the rest of the day? Michael's pretty much dead, so I won't be going out and leaving him. I guess the day will involve a lot of reading and things like that.

*  *  *

It's now evening. Michael has thrown up four more times since this morning, but he's been okay for about three hours now. He's been begging me for food, but I've told him it won't settle his stomach. He hated that idea, so after much debating, we decided that he can eat at dinner time – which is starting soon.

I haven't made him a lot, because it would probably make him sick again, but it's enough to eliminate his appetite. He's been telling me he's craving cheese on toast, so that's what I'm making him. I'll be having the same – just more of it.

He tried drinking some orange juice earlier, but the sweetness was too sickly for him, and ... you can guess what. Needless to say, his stomach didn't agree with any kind of fluid at that moment in time; he brought it straight back up.

The toaster pops, causing me to jump slightly. I walk over to it, pulling the toast out of it, hissing a little from the sudden heat against my fingers. Quickly, I set it on a plate, sprinkling cheese over it. Then, it goes into the microwave oven, so the cheese can melt.

It's then that I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Michael got out of bed? Really? I would've taken the food up to his room, so he could rest himself.

He peeps his head around the door, "Hi," he greets, his voice limp-sounding and quiet.

I turn around to see him fully, "Hey Michael. How are you feeling?" I inquire sweetly. The microwave pings, so I head over to it, removing the plate from inside, "Feeling any better?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses to choose his words wisely, "Uhm ... better, I guess, but ... still not fully there. I still feel like my stomach's at war with me," he answers, gently embracing his stomach with one hand, combing his curls back with the fingers of his other.

"Aww," I coo softly, "Well, it might be hunger. Here, get this down you," I pass him the plate, which he takes with his free hand, "There you go."

He walks slowly over to the table, taking a seat, and setting the plate down on it, "Thank you," he mumbles, lifting a piece of toast up with his forefinger and thumb, "Smells good, anyway ... " he adds, sounding slightly timid. He takes a bite, before chewing, "Tastes good, too ... "

A smile creeps into my face, "Let's hope it fixes that hurting stomach of yours," I say playfully, earning a small closed-mouth smile from him, "You really were hungry, weren't you?" I ask, noticing the increasing speed of him guzzling it down.

"It's real good," he starts, "It's making me feel better ... "

"Don't eat too fast; it might make you sick again," I advise politely, "We don't want that."

"Ah, I feel completely fine, now I've eaten," he retorts, a more genuine smile coming to his face, "I knew the sickness was being brought on by hung—"

Before he can finish his sentence, he drops the toast onto the plate, clasping his hand over his mouth. He dashes from the room, only giving me the impression that I was right – him eating too fast will make him sick again. Poor Michael ...

I rise from my seat, following Michael upstairs to the bathroom. Once I'm there, I see Michael hovering over the toilet, his hands clutching the seat firmly, his head hanging over the bowl.

"Michael ... " I call his name quietly. He acknowledges my presence with a small nod, but he can't do anything else because then he retches, and the cheese on toast he just ate comes back up, along with a little bile. I rush to hold his hair back out his face like this morning, and I pat his back to soothe him, "It's alright, Michael ... it's better being out your system than in ... "

Through his vomiting, I hear him start to cry, which fills my heart with so much sadness, "Why does everything bad have to happen to me?" he asks weakly, his voice giving out to how awful he feels, "It's not ... ugh! fair ... "

Sympathy fills me at those words. He's right; why do all the bad things happen to him? It really isn't fair at all ...

"There, there, Michael ... " I comfort him. He lifts his head, and – after wiping his mouth – he falls into my arms, crying hysterically, so I hug him tightly to calm him down, "I've got you, Michael ... I've got you ... "

"I hate life so bad ... " he sobs against my chest, his fingers curling and tensing up, locking bunches of my shirt in his grasp.

"I know you do, Michael. That's why I'm here for you. How many times will I have to remind you?" I comfort him, beginning to rock his trembling body back and forth in my arms, much like a mother rocking their baby to sleep, "And I'll never, ever leave you ... not ever. I'm going to be here for forever and a half ... "

"Thank you ... " is all he can say in response – and I don't blame him at all.

The life he's living must be so hard ... and that's why I'm so determined to stay by his side throughout all of it.

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Aww, Michael got sick. Let's hope he's okay soon! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!