"Micky?"

The boy was startled awake the next morning and he panicked, thinking Mike had caught him on the couch.

It was Rebecca.

Micky sighed in relief. "Hi Mrs. Nesmith," he said.

She tutted over him. "What are you doing down here? You usually go to bed with Mike."

"I—" a lump formed in his throat. He couldn't bear to tell Rebecca that her son scared him...but she seemed to understand.

"You're scared of him, aren't you?" she asked softly, sitting on the couch.

Micky looked down at his hands. He didn't say anything, and Rebecca wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"I know it's hard...but he suffered for so long. Can you at least try to give him time?"

Micky opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a bloodcurdling scream coming from Mike's bedroom.

Sometimes I dabble in playwriting (I've been writing plays since Sophomore Year—so almost 3 years now) and I'm lowkey considering writing one that involves The Monkees. Possibly Dolenzmith?

Hm. I'll get back to you on that.