The Unfortified We: Save Samuel

Chapter 7: Foreshadows Death

"So let me get this straight..."

He paused and I watched him for a good long minute before he opened his mouth again.

Only to close it in another wave of disbelief.

"Yes?" I asked flatly, drawing out the 'e'. This boy has taken my short attention span to a whole new level. Wish he would just shut up and go to bed, because thanks to him I had been kept up way past my already late bed time. It was excruciatingly painful to watch him stutter like this.

"So..."

"Jes!" I hissed at him, throwing my hands in the air, "For the love of your ginger head, will you just shut up!" 

"Ow," he muttered as I then slapped the side of his skull. There was a moment of silence before he looked at me, patting his hair gently, "you like my hair?"

All he got out of me was a loathsome glare.

"Okay," He sighed from where he sat beside me- on my bed might I add. "So what time is it?"

"Bed time," I said trying to nudge him away from me.

"So if the fantasy wants to kill Sam to get into our world, then why are they here in front of your house?"

"Because I'm Sam's guardian," I told him blatantly, ignoring his hyperactivity.

"But you're really not standing in their way," Jes said, "they could just go to his house and kill him right now..."

"I know..." I frowned, "I'm sure he's with his mom though."

"And why didn't they just kill him at the school? He was right there," Jes gestured to the window which really had no relevance to the school.

I just nodded.

"And if they wanted you dead, then why don't they just come into your house and kill you," he said, "right now."

"Don't jinx it," I murmured, falling back on my bed, my head and hair dangling over the edge.

"None of this makes any sense, you sure you've got this right?"

"Yup."

"Is there some kind of guardian handbook of something?"

"Jes..."

"Yeah?"

"You're stupid, shut up."

He fell back on the bed next to me, his ginger hair hanging loosely from his head, "Just trying to help."

I glared at him, "I didn't ask for your help."

"Yes, but you need it," He said, "You clearly have no idea what's going on and it's clearly bringing you down."

"What are you? A psychiatrist?"

He shrugged which seemed to push his head further off the bed. With him being taller than me, he didn't fit sideways on my bed as conveniently as I did; his face and freckles were beginning to turn a flushed red from his position.

"I've got it..." he whispered, "I know what's going on."

"What? You're going to diagnose me with anxiety or something?" I asked, my expression unfazed.

"Uh, no." He said flatly. Then his tone changed to something more interested; "I know why they're here."

"Why then?"

"You're the guardian right?" He asked; his voice was beginning to sound funny from all the blood rushing to his head. It made me wonder whether his cranium was sane enough to come up with a legit solution.