#earworm warning

He floated in the darkness, weightless yet weighed down.

There was nothing to see, nothing to feel. Nothing to smell. Yet he could SEE the dark in an overwhelming level of detail and his nerves rejected the empty tactile nothingness and told him cold instead.

There was sound in the void, but it was intermittent and muffled, as if he was underwater. Voices… familiar but unhappy bubbled past him. If only they’d speak more clearly perhaps he could fix whatever the problem was… but he found he couldn’t move his arms or… his head or… anything so fixing was probably out of the question. He wondered if there anything of him left to move?

He wondered if he was… gone… and found he couldn’t feel too strongly about the idea. Hello darkness, Virgil was ready to succumb.

Oh… Virgil. He had a name. Well there it is.

He knew he was supposed to fight the dark but he was so tired. He was also aware the reason he kept fighting was no more. Although he wasn’t entirely sure what that had been… it nagged at him. It had been important. He was pretty sure it had been everything - there was just a hollow space where he imagined his chest would be. Was odd he couldn’t remember. If he could move his face he’d frown at that.

Maybe it was just that Afterwards you didn’t remember Before?

He only hoped this nothing wouldn’t be everything - the lack of comprehensible sensory input was maddening. Not to mention he had an irritating earworm that was disproving his theory about not remembering. And that would be really annoying to think about for eternity. What even was it? Some kids’ film…

Can there be a day beyond this night? I don’t know anymore what is true.

Huh. Pretty dark for something aimed at children.

Mind you, children felt things pretty strongly. He’d always done so, as far as he could tell. It’s why art and music worked for him. He remembered that too. Alright, memory was a thing then. Given the lack of anything else to do he cast his mind back, trying to recall something, anything… about who he was.

Trees. He could picture trees and feel the drop in the wind as he stepped amongst them. One in particular which was taller than the rest… a pecan. The scaly bark scratched at his fingertips as he peered up into the rustling branches overhead. Wait! He tried to shout but no sound came out! Wait! He wasn’t tall enough! He couldn’t follow! He stood on his tiptoes and stretched towards the hand that reached down out of the leaves but his fingers only brushed the air. He gasped, a bigger hand landed on his shoulder and it all went black again.

He was on his knees on the dusty tarmac and his knees were stinging but not as much as his eyes. The back of the big yellow bus blurred as he cursed his little legs for not being able to catch up with it. He squeaked in horror as a truck thundered past, horn blaring and then large hands were pulling his shoulders, dragging him to the grass. Sharp words, scared words. They told him he couldn’t follow. He wasn’t big enough for big school yet. He couldn’t always follow. He lifted his hands from his knees and stared at the redness that highlighted the wrinkles in his palms. A sob choked him and the red spread out and covered everything.

That large hand was tugging at his elbow, but Virgil wasn’t easy to move against his will. He relented and took one pace backwards, moving his right foot down one of the stone steps leading away from the ornate doorway with a lone figure standing in it. The others had gone back inside to continue the celebration. But one remained, watching them leave, smiling. The stupidly massive doors made him look small and he’d never looked small before. The left foot wouldn’t move. The arm tugged at him but he couldn’t. He couldn’t not follow. The figure waved again, straightened the smart blue coat with the silver buttons and gave a cheeky salute before turning and walking away. Virgil had no breath to cry out to him to stop, he could only reach out silently towards the retreating blue.

I follow you around, I always have, but you’ve gone to a place I cannot find.

No. The song was wrong. NO! He thrashed against the nothing and gagged on the bile that rose up in a throat that could suddenly feel, could suddenly burn, could agonisingly scream out loud:

“SCOTT!”

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

Previous Chapter

When had young people got so ridiculous?

And when had he stopped being one? He sighed and dragged his hands down his face. Damn, he really was getting old and grumpy.

And probably hangry, now he thought about it. Well that was fixable even if the inexorable march towards irrelevant middle age was not. He made a beeline for the fridge and found himself uninspired by the array of pre-prepared high calorie low effort snacks they usually favoured post mission. He craved something… nutritious…

Ignoring the imagined old-man mockery of the younger brothers who resided in his brain, he pulled out every fresh ingredient they had in stock: Eggs, bacon, sausages, three types of cheese, peppers, spring onions, basil… ah Ha! He knew exactly what this was going to be. A quick rummage in the larder turned up a bag of potatoes and he hefted it over his shoulder, flicking the switch on grandma’s ancient radio as he went past.

Ooh, ‘Happy 90s Hour’ was starting. One of his guilty pleasures as a teenager in the early 50s…

The repetitive peeling and dicing task combined with the irrepressibly cheery pop bangers slowly eased the knot of grouchiness in his chest. By the time he scooped the mountain of potato cubes into the dustbin-lid sized frying pan he was singing along with both halves of the Barbie Girl duet. A pleasing sizzling ensued and he grinned to himself. This was going to be epic. A little prodding with the spatula to cook them evenly then he turned the heat down and did a little slide sideways to fetch the meat and a shuffle and a hop back to add them to the pan.

As John popped up on the kitchen comm, his big brother was too busy volta-ing through the kitchen with a cheese grater to notice. Because you can’t just walk across a room when Ricky Martin is playing. John’s quizzical single eyebrow was rapidly joined by its twin as he spotted the pan on the stove… he cut the connection and leapt into the elevator, sending a message to Virgil to put his proverbial foot down.

Frittata Night was not to be trifled with.

And so it was that all four younger brothers took the elevator up from the hangar together and arrived in a state of some excitement for the culinary experience that awaited them.

As the door opened however Virgil threw out his arms to prevent them piling out. The chatter stopped immediately as they peered round the wall of brother to spy their eldest dancing to and fro at the stove and belting out the words to some ancient pop song:

So hold on to the ones who care

In the end they’ll be the only ones there

When you get old and start losing your hair

Can you tell me who will still caaaaare?

As the chorus dropped so did the jaws of Alan and Gordon for who knew their biggest brother could move his hips like that? And why was he waving the spatula that way? Alan looked wide eyed to John and pointed with a shaking hand as if to ensure his space brother was seeing the same thing he was. John, didn’t acknowledge him, instead staring straight ahead, tapping a finger on the doorframe in time with the beat. Gordon turned to Virgil unable to verbalise beyond “bu.. bu… bu…” only to find his tank of a brother smiling broadly and… his jaw dislocated further… also swaying his hips in time.

Then he was gone.

… And so was John!

Both of them jigging across the floor to join their brother in an honest to goodness dance routine while the three of them sang nonsense words. Alan lost control of his knees and collapsed cross-legged to the floor. Gordon desperately tried to grab his phone to record the moment but fumbled and dropped it down the back of the couch. And then it was over.

And there was frittata.

And if the Tinies were unusually quiet during the meal, the elder three didn’t notice as each treasured the memories of their little dance trio ‘performing’ for their biggest fan. While eating her signature dish.

Fin.

*****

You want the dance routine? Course not… but here is is anyway (Scott starts singing at about 0:40, chorus and excellent hip action kick in at about 0:52)