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Bubba couldn't sleep: his eyes felt like solid lead balls in his sockets, and yet, he still couldn't sleep. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't need to sleep, or at the very least, he convinced himself of that. Jeremiah's safety was more important than sleep. In his mind, it wasn't even a close call.
He moved his eyes independently of his head, feeling the grittiness of his eyeballs rub against his eyelids and sockets. He had broken into a cold sweat hours ago when he decided to give up sleep for the night; the cold sweat would not dissipate. Outside is not safe. The outside must stay out.
There was only one light on in the entire house; in the room Bubba was standing in, the dining room. The light did not fend the darkness off well; the rim of where the battle was being lost lay on the outskirts of the table's corners. He stood there. His eyes scanned for locks. Any lock to anything. Doors, windows, they needed to be locked. They needed to be double, triple-checked. No, they constantly needed to be checked, in case someone opened them. The outside must stay out.
Bubba walked systematically through the bottom floor of the house, trying to lock each lock he saw. Every lock resisted the turn, digging into his fingertips. He went ‘round and ‘round, as if seeing each lock for the first time, and his heart jumping out of his chest when he saw one. His sharp, frantic turns made him dizzy; his head hurt from the velocity of each spin, but he continued. Jeremiah's safety was more important; it wasn't even close.
Light began to peek through the curtains. It must have been the early hours of morning. Bubba stopped for a moment, then opened the curtain to see the full sunrise: how the pinks and reds blended with the yellows; how golden the sun looked; how much his eyes hurt looking at it. He looked away. The home was full of light once more, and Bubba went into the kitchen. Jeremiah woke up to a fresh pot of coffee, none the wiser about his husband's night.
-
Bubba couldn't sleep again. He didn't need to. Jeremiah's safety was more important than sleep. All the locks had been turned; his gritty eyes could see them. His eyes could also be lying to him, trying to convince him that he's safe. Outside is not safe. The outside must stay out. He began his system, the same as the night before, leaving imprints on his fingertips and pain in his head. He froze just outside of the light in the dining room. Something was watching him. Something outside wanted to come in.
All the curtains were closed. Jeremiah hated leaving them open at night, since “People might come peakin’, and I'd prefer they didn't”. But, as Bubba realized, he couldn't look outside. Someone could be there. Maybe that's where they were watching, outside, because the outside is not safe. The outside already took Jeremiah from him once before, and Bubba was sure that they would do it again. Right there, he decided, the curtains must be opened.
Frrrrrrroooooom, frrrrrroooom, frrrrrroooooom, fr-fr-frrrooooom. One by one, he opened the curtains and stared out into the abyss. A pit would form in his stomach, waiting for a set of eyes to meet his own. He couldn't move until the feeling went away; then his gritty eyes searched for the next set of curtains.
He stood just outside the light's reach in the dining room again, as if admiring what he had done, deciding what next to do. But he made a grave error, one he didn't realize until now. Now, they can always see him. They always know exactly where he is in the house. They know where to catch him, and when he's out of the way, they can take who they're really here for. Jeremiah.
No! How stupid could he be?! He did exactly what they wanted. They played him, and yet, he was afraid. He couldn't move, couldn't close the curtains to blind the enemy. A weight in his stomach became all-consuming. His throat tightened. Click! His heart begged to be free. His lungs were unable to match the heart's pace. He gasped, over and over, inhales battling the silenced sobs his throat produced. More often than not, the inhales won. Sometimes, the battle ended in stalemate. Click! He couldn't will himself to stand any longer, moving to the kitchen, hiding himself behind the floor cabinets. Click!
Bubba could barely hear it over his choked sobs, but in the gap of silence, he finally heard it. Click!
Click! Click! Click! Click! CLICK!
He was right, something was trying to get in. The locks. The locks were being undone as he tried to hide. He buried himself in his arms, turning himself into a ball on the floor. He closed his eyes so tight it hurt. It was coming. CLICK! He was the final obstacle. He couldn't breathe. This was it. He was dying. Suffocating.
The darkness he saw behind his eyelids slowly turn into a hue of blinding red-orange. Was this the end? Has the outside won? Bubba opened his eyes. The sun was back. No corner of the house was left dark, light streaming in from every open curtain. No lock had been undone, no windows or doors opened, and Bubba went on to make a fresh pot of coffee.
-
His fingers had permanent dents in them, perfectly fitting with the shape of the locks. Tonight, the curtains would not be opened. Bubba moved around them, as if an invisible sphere prevented him from getting too close. His eyes were heavy. If his eyes were lead balls two days ago, they were cannonballs today. Large, full, iron-made cannonballs.
It was hard to keep his gritty eyes open. They burned, begging for sleep, begging for lubrication, begging for it all to stop. Bubba couldn't afford to stop. His husband was too expensive to lose. The outside must stay out.
God, how his head hurt. Every spin felt like his cannonballs fired into his skull. The pain seemingly came from inside his head, painfully pulsating his skull. He closed his eyes, trying to blink the pain away.
He saw it. He. Saw. It. A black humanoid shadow standing by the front door with sharp, cube-like features.
And then it was gone.
Had it gotten inside? How? Where was it now? Bubba needed a weapon, something to defend himself with. He blinked, and again, he saw the creature for a fraction of a second. But he knew, he knew someone was there.
He felt safer in the dining room. He stood under the weak light, having moved a chair to be fully covered in it. A weapon, he remembered, is what he was looking for. He didn't have many options. Well, he really only had one choice; a leftover steak knife from dinner. Sure, there were also two forks and two plates, but surely the answer was the steak knife. He took them both, dual-wielding.
He looked pathetic, holding two steak knives in front of him, pointing at nothing. He felt a little silly too, but his fear overshadowed it. He couldn't see it, but he felt it. The outside must stay out. But if the outside was in, was it too late?
Click.
He jumped. It wasn't the locks this time, it was the dull, low click of a light switch. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Why can't you think, Bubba!? He knew better. He knew they wanted to see him fully. Standing in the dining room, standing in the light, another stupid mistake. He couldn't afford stupid mistakes in a time like this. His husband went to war, defended the country, but Bubba can't defend one man? The man he loves more than anyone else in the world?
The kitchen looked like an appetizing place to hide, away from the light. He didn't see much else of a choice.
Click. Followed by the sound of footsteps. They were coming closer. It was coming closer.
It felt impossible to keep his eyes open. Closing them felt sweet, free from the fear for half a second. Opening them again was a near impossible task, if it hadn't been for the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
“Hello?”
It can speak!? This thing was much more dangerous than Bubba realized. If it could walk and talk, there's no reason why it couldn't fight. Come on, Bubba. Think. Fucking think. That head of yours can't be that empty. He pounded the side of his head with his hand.
He accidentally let out a muffled, pained moan. It slipped from his lips, until his lips realized what they did and quickly shut. His breathing was manic; his lungs burned. He felt a stream of blood trickle from the side of his head. Stupid Bubba. He had accidentally stabbed himself with his own steak knife. Stupid.
“Hello?” the voice called again.
Bubba knew, deep down, that it was now or never. The outside was in; he either takes action or they take Jeremiah.
He ran in the direction of the voice he heard. He happened to stumble into the hallway, which was fully lit. They could see him. He knew it. Stupid, Bubba. Stupid.
He had never seen his husband look so manic, so threatening, so scared. He looked half savage, half child.
“Oh, Bubba,” he noticed the blood dripping down his head. He went to put his thumb on the source of the bleeding. “What happened?”
Bubba pointed one of the steak knives at him. “What have you done?”
Jeremiah looked confused. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just came looking for you.” His voice was calm and smooth. He was scared, and the occasional finger tremor gave it away, but Bubba didn't notice at the time. He was looking deep into Jeremiah's eyes, sending a shiver down his spine. “We should get you back to bed, sweet-”
“What have you done?!” Bubba repeated, yelling at him. His eyes were wide. The point of his knife made small circles around Jeremiah's chest. “What have you done to Jeremiah?”
“No one's done anything to me, sweetheart.”
Jeremiah saw a drop of blood run down the side of his head, hanging onto his husband's jaw.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE,” he was screaming at the top of his lungs, teeth gritting against one another, “TO JEREMIAH?!”
Jeremiah couldn't think of anything to say. What was there to say? He already said that he hasn't changed, and Bubba clearly doesn't believe him.
“Let me clean up your wound at least, Bubbs. Please?”
Bubba's eyes softened. Jeremiah could see the fear leaving his face, the defensive front crumbling down. Bubba cried, a few tears running down until it developed into a poor sob. The scene was awful for Jeremiah to watch. His husband, puffy-eyed, large black eye bags, the choking sobs he let out. He swore he could feel his husband's sobs in his own throat.
Bubba ran into him, sobbing into Jeremiah's chest. He held Bubba, rubbing his hand up and down his back.
“Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” he whispered before planting a kiss on Bubba's forehead. “Then we'll get you to bed, yeah?”
“But,” Bubba tried to speak between sobs, “someone's outside.”
“No one's outside, Bubbs. The only thing outside are the cattle, chickens, cows, and horses. No one wonders over here. Our nearest neighbor is a mile away.”
Bubba sniffled, “No cubes?”
“No cubes,” he reassured.
Bubba continued to sob into Jeremiah's chest as he examined Bubba's wound. Luckily, it didn't look like anything to serious. He pulled Bubba's head from his chest after the sobs subsided.
“Let's clean you up and get you to bed, yeah?”
Bubba could only nod as he wiped away his remaining tears. Bubba fell asleep in one of the dining room chairs as Jeremiah cleaned his wound. Jeremiah then carried him up to the bedroom, covering him with the comforter, and kissed him on the forehead. He climbed into bed next to his husband and whispered, “Good night, sweetheart.”