The Devil at your Door

Chapter 1: Voices in my Head, Reprise

Awareness came through waves of pain.

Jeremy lay in numbness, quiet and formless, until the outline of himself began to tingle in the tips of his fingers and spread outward. There was something throbbing against him; latched to his skin, his arm, winding up tighter and tighter until release, on repeat. Distantly, he could hear a whirring noise.

And then he felt something prick his other arm. He was out again, for a while. Waxing. Waning. Every time the cycle picked up, he came a little closer to himself, his consciousness rooting in and dragging him forward.

When he finally made it to the surface, the first thing Jeremy noticed was just how dry his mouth was.

He clicked his tongue against his tonsils, then back and forth across his teeth, trying to abade the dull ache in his gums. He was surprised to find his eyes open quickly enough, only to wince at the sunlight beaming directly at his face through the window beside his bed. He raised his hand, shading himself, and noticed a velcro cuff around his forearm.

Ah.

Blood pressure.

The smell of antiseptic and the IV catheter hooked to his other arm almost overpowered a lingering scent of stale cranberry juice. Across the room, to his right, a curtain had been drawn around what Jeremy guessed must be his roommate. Everything was silent, save the dull vrrs and beeps of the machines around him, and a small tension in Jeremy's neck loosened. Right. He was practically alone.

He looked at the window again, to his left. His eyes had already adjusted, and he could make out a small sliver of green swaying against blue. The angle was too awkward to gaze out properly, but he didn't think getting up was a good idea right now.

If he can get up at all.

Jeremy tensed again.

He always remembered the Play. The moment his brain was unfogged enough to think clearly he gravitated towards, and latched onto, this newfound trauma. Something in his system seemed to prevent him from panicking completely, but there was a low, pressing sense of failure weighing against him.

He was already aware the Squip was gone. He would've announced himself if he wasn't.

Jeremy still fucked everything up.

He closed his eyes, frowning. How many chances had he had to avoid this? When had he doomed himself; had it been when he blew off Michael at Jake's party, or when he chose the upgrade? Was it just inevitable, as soon as he bought the damn thing?

If he was in the hospital, how was everyone else?

How was Christine?

Fuck. Christine.

Like the memories of a favorite food, spoiled after the flu.

He groaned, clenching his eyes tighter together, wishing he could smack himself. Nothing to show for this. The IV seemed to stop most pain, but the more he reflected, the further his head swam and tension prickled at his neck.

Outside his room, maybe down a hall, he heard people begin to talk. The words were too muffled to parse out, but one of them sounded familiar--either his dad, or Michael.

He didn't know which would be worse.

On the table under the window, he could make out his glasses case, and he flopped over, sighing. He supposed it made more sense to bring these rather then his contacts, but that didn't mean he wanted to put them on. Still, he slipped the frames over his eyes, and the voices outside settled. A slapping of sneakers against linoleum floors began, and they seemed to be heading straight for his door.