Chapter 17 - Fever

The soaked wet sheets and the pajama drenched in sweat stuck to his body like a second skin, making Misha feel sticky all over. The child had been battling with the blankets for a while now, puffing and cursing. Today, the bedsheets seemed to weigh a ton, and pushing them away was by no means an easy feat.

The moment the boy finally succeeded in tossing them on the side, his whole body started to shiver, and thus he immediately crawled back beneath the sheets, once again fidgeting in his bed. He was trying to find a more comfortable position but to no avail. It was always too hot or too cold.

The child g.r.o.a.n.e.d and buried his dizzy head into his pillow. The damned fever was about to get the better of him, and he just wanted to give up and let himself fell into a deep slumber. However, he was afraid that if he allowed himself to doze off for too long, unpleasant memories would haunt his dreams.

Since his return from the amus.e.m.e.nt park a few days ago, Misha was stuck in bed, his consciousness hanging by a thread. Within those days, nightmares often came by to say hi, and he woke up in panic more than once.

The worst nightmare appeared on the very first day, and even now, Misha still couldn't get rid of its ghost. It was always lurking in the corner of his mind.

That day, his smiling sister walked into his room, a big glass of water in her hand. Humming, she sat on his bed and bent over to put the glass on the night table, and then, the necklace Gabriel gave her slipped from the collar of her t-shirt. With a slow, constant rhythm, the heart-shaped leaf pendant swayed in front of the boy's eyes, and the little boy fell in a daze.

When Misha saw it, his heart almost stopped, his breath caught in his throat. That necklace, his sister deeply cherished it in their past life, and even when she took away her life, she was still wearing it around her neck. Back then, the ominous glint of the pendant, which was hanging over the edge of the bloody bathtub, seemed to mock him. That pendant was supposed to be Gabriel's proof of love, yet it became the witness of his cold-blooded heart.

The little boy took a deep breath. He didn't want to think about such things. His sister wasn't dead; she was living fine. That scene would never repeat itself, no matter what, and Gabriel would never break his sister a second time.

Even if Misha was now stuck in the body of a nine-years-olds kid, he wasn't depressed. He could change everything. Again, Misha thought of such things, trying to comfort himself. The watch, which was lost somewhere between his bed and the wall, gave him a second chance, and this time, he wouldn't grow up to be a man consumed by regret.

The only annoying thing was this weak body of his. They had just walked around a little, and yet the weekend had taken its toll on him. That was already three days ago, but his body still hadn't shown any signs of recovery.

How was he supposed to protect his family in this pitiful state? In spite of his broad fighting experience, with this small body, he couldn't do anything against an a.d.u.l.t. Misha had always used brut force to flatten his opponents, throwing punch after punch without thinking too much, and fighting smart was not in his dictionary.

Although it seemed that some of his skills remained after transmigrating, Misha wouldn't be able to go very far if all he could do was throwing darts. After all, his father wouldn't stay still and wait for him to riddle his body with holes. Moreover, his only target had always been an immobile dartboard, and hitting a moving target was undoubtedly beyond his capacities.

"Reality is such a b*tch," mumbled Misha, and in the back of his mind, he dejectedly thought that taking Aikido lessons was probably out of the question. After running a few l.a.p.s, would he be so out of breath that he would faint? Would he collapse on the ground, unable to get up? That would be so embarrassing! Where the hell did his youthful energy run off!? Eh!?

Dispirited, the little boy w.h.i.n.ed, then pounded on his pillow with his small fists and repeatedly kicked the mattress to vent his pent-up frustration a little, although he soon had to put an end to his tantrum. He felt too dizzy to keep on moving around.

Slowly, Misha rolled on his back and stared at the white ceiling. The only sounds he could hear were his own panting and heartbeat. The rest of the house was immersed in silence.

Until then, Misha was left alone in his room.

Slowly, the little boy glanced at the old-fashioned walkie-talkie on the night table. His mother had the other one, and if he needed anything, he had to call her over, so knowing that she was close and easily reachable, he felt at ease.

A small smile stretched his lips.

In the past few days, the women in his family had pampered him like a little king. They were at his beck and call, afraid that he would feel distressed if he couldn't contact them.

Luckily, his fever wasn't too high, but it wasn't too low either. Moreover, it refused to go down, no matter how many drugs the child gobbled up, or how many days he obediently rested in bed.

As Misha pulled up the blankets over his shoulders, he squinted his eyes, glaring at nothing while remembering his visit to the clinic.

The previous day, his mother couldn't stay still anymore, worried sick, and brought him to the doctor in the morning. She looked so nervous that she made others anxious, and even the secretary wondered what kind of deadly illness his son had to put her in such a state.

After many boring, unpleasant tests, the doctor still wasn't able to find anything wrong with Misha's body, except for his high body temperature. In the end, he came up with a nasty cold to explain the constant fever. Since the said fever was low and didn't threaten his life, he prescribed a few medicaments and sent him back home, telling his mother to put him in bed and watch over him. If the fever worsened, or still didn't go down after two more days, it would be better to go to the hospital.

A little bit relieved, his mother thanked the doctor, and they left the clinic. On the way home, they stopped by the pharmacy to buy her son's medicine.

Misha knew the syrop was utterly useless - it could even harm him instead. After all, he didn't have a cold; it was just his brain that couldn't keep up with the massive amount of new memories and reflexes. Taking medicine when one didn't need it wasn't good for the body. He only hoped the syrop wouldn't make things worst.

Sighing, the little boy closed his eyes, thinking that he shouldn't complain too much. Although he wasn't feeling well, the constant care of his family was heart-warming, and it was a wonderful feeling.

Over the year, Misha had forgotten how it felt when his mother and sister coddled him. After Masha died, he was mostly left alone, and when he was sick, there was no one to take care of him. Well, the irresponsible a.d.u.l.t that he was also never notified Dereck, or Vanessa, too proud to let them know that he was dying in bed. He was a big man, and of course, he could handle a simple cold by himself.

Misha couldn't help but think back to those lonely days. However, it wasn't for long as the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by heavy footsteps coming up from the stairs, startled him, interrupting his train of thought.

Not long after, someone opened the door of his room, and Misha's cloudy eyes swept over them. It was a chubby boy around ten years old. His disheveled dark-brown hair was falling onto his forehead, almost hiding his chocolate eyes. He seemed familiar, but Misha wasn't able to recognize him immediately.

Before Misha could say anything, the chubby child trotted to his bed.

"Your mom said I could come over and say hello," smiled the boy as he sat on the bed.

Misha frowned, staring at the dimples in the fat cheeks, then he said with a small voice, "Dereck?"

"Yeah?"

Although Misha often teased his friend about his heavy weigh in his youth, seeing this fatty body of his again shocked him to no end.

After all, Misha was used to his a.d.u.l.t appearance, to the tall, muscled body and the bearded face, not to this little ball of meat. The difference between the young version and the older one left him speechless for a moment, but he quickly got over it. At that moment, he had other things on his mind, and after traveling back in time, nothing could disturb him for too long.

Frowning, Misha glared at the clueless Dereck, who asked, "Is something wrong?"

Misha didn't answer, and instead, he took one of his pillows and threw it in his face. He hadn't forgotten how this little fellow had betrayed him at the bar, holding his arms instead of helping him beat Gabriel to a pulp. It had hurt him deeply, and it was still fresh in his memory.

Well, Misha had also always been very petty, and it wasn't because the chubby Dereck in front of him didn't know what the future him had done that he wouldn't vent his anger on him. However, just throwing the pillow tired him out and made him dizzy. Thus, ignoring the bewildered look on Dereck's face, he hmphed and turned over in his bed, pulling the blankets over his shoulders.

Chubby Dereck, "???"

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Author's note

Dereck: Are you really going to sulk for something I still haven't done?

Author: Oh, Dereck, you're just in time! I always wanted to ask you something. How the hell were you able to handle this guy's tantrums for over 15 years? And still be his friend?

Dereck: Oh, I'm used to it. Anyways, isn't he cute when he pouts? He looks like a little hamster!

Author: True.

MC: (╬⁽⁽ ⁰ ⁾⁾ Д ⁽⁽ ⁰ ⁾⁾)