"See No Evil"

A loud cackle rang throughout the Monkees’ beach house.

Davy glanced up briefly from the kitchen table, where he sat reading the newspaper. He sighed and decided to ignore it.

Mike and Peter leaned on the railing on the second floor, overlooking the ground floor, just above where Davy sat.

"He’s still at it," Mike commented, slowly.

Peter nodded. "What is he trying to make?"

"You don’t know?" Mike asked.

"Do you?"

"No..."

Just beyond the makeshift stage, Micky sat hunched over a project he had been working on for nearly a week now. The others had no idea of what he was trying to accomplish, but what they did know, was it involved Micky’s ever-dangerous chemistry set.

There was already evidence of the danger around the house... and on Micky himself. His mop of curls had been cut shorter than his preference the day before when one experiment exploded practically in his face. He still wasn’t quite sure what had happened and how his hair got ‘sindged’, as he put it.

Also, Micky wasn’t allowed to use the kitchen table anymore. If Davy didn’t have the newspaper spread out over it, a rather large, dark green stain would be obvious.

Despite his non-successes, Micky cackled again, a sound that made the other three cringe, for they knew that something would explode and soon. He held up a vial, almost grinning like a madman, which for him was typical anyway. The liquid in the vial glowed a bright blue in the sunlight coming in through the row of windows behind the stage.

As Micky continued eying the vial, his grin slowly dissipated, until it finally turned into a frown.

This was when Peter decided to speak up. "What’s the matter, Mick?"

Micky set his jaw, now glaring at the vial. "I don’t remember what I was trying to make." He pulled out a cork and stuck it in the top of the vial to seal it, then set it in the test tube rack.

Davy glanced up from the paper again and, this time, sighed in relief. "Hey, fellas, why don’t we practice a little? We haven’t played all week."

"Good idea, Dave," Mike chimed in, starting for the spiral staircase, with Peter following.

Micky ‘hmph’ed, even though he was through with the chemistry set for the moment. But, maybe playing a song would help jog his memory. "Alright." He got up and took up his place behind the backwards-assembled drum kit. He picked up the drumsticks and grinned again while twirling the sticks.

Peter walked past as he did this and stuck his tongue out at Micky. "Show off." He smirked, then picked up his bass, while Micky returned by sticking his tongue out.

Mike watched with mild disdain, slinging his Gretsch guitar over his head. "Guys..." He let the slight warning dangle, then asked, "What song do we want to play?"

Davy looked over the remaining instruments, then finally picked up his favorite tambourine. "How about I’ll Spend My Life With You?" He emphasized the suggestion by twirling the tambourine for a brief moment.

Micky twirled his sticks again. "I’m up for it!" He glanced at Mike and Peter, and upon seeing no objections, he counted it off...

* * * * *

That night, Micky had trouble falling asleep. He rolled over in bed for what had to be atleast the hundredth time, easily. He squinted across the room at Mike’s bed. The Texan had his back to him.

Micky sighed and rolled out of bed, headed for the door. He left and went downstairs, making a B-line for the cabinets. He grabbed a bowl and turned to set it on the table, but something caught his attention. He set the bowl down, then decided to take a closer look. He could just barely see a dim light emitting from where he had earlier been working on the project he had yet to reidentify.

Micky knelt next to the chemistry set and picked up the vial holding the bright blue liquid, which now seemed to glow on its own. His eyes widened. None of his experiments had done this before. He turned the vial this way and that, before realizing the glow was becoming brighter.

He set the vial back in the rack and backed off a bit, finally shielding his eyes from the brightness. "Oh, man..." Micky groaned, taking a quick peek at the vial through his fingers.

Suddenly, the bright blue light flashed, flooding the entire house with light. Some of the light made it through the spaces around the bedroom doors. Once it dissipated, both doors opened, bringing the others into the living room.

"What is going on out here?" Mike asked, clearly annoyed with being woken up.

Davy was the first to notice: "Micky?" He saw their friend seated on the floor, staring at the rack of vials, or so he though, considering they only saw the back of his head from where they stood.

Mike and Peter now noticed that he hadn’t moved. "Micky?" Peter echoed, worry evident in his voice.

Again receiving no answer, Mike walked over and knelt next to him. "Micky?" He looked him right in the face, yet it didn’t get his attention.

"Mike?" Micky began, quietly, sounding unsure.

Mike tried making eye contact, but he wouldn’t stop his staring. "What is it, Mick?"

"I--" Micky frowned, making the others even more worried. He never acted like this. "I--I can’t see."

"What?" Mike asked, thinking he heard him wrong.

"The light came from the vial I was working on today. I was sitting right here when it got brighter." Micky’s voice grew with fear as he spoke." I don’t know what happened... I can’t see, Mike!"

Mike took a quick opportunity and looked Micky in the eyes again. This time, he noticed they looked unfocused and certainly not as full of life as they had been. "What did you put in that?"

"I don’t know! I didn’t have a chance to make notes." He paused. "This is freaking me out, guys."

"It’s okay, Mick," Mike consoled. "Here, I’ll help ya up." He took one arm and helped Micky onto his feet.

Davy and Peter joined in helping by moving things off to the side so Micky wouldn’t trip.

"Where do you want to go? The couch or back to the room?" Mike asked.

"Maybe the room," he answered.

"You’ll be okay with the stairs?"

Micky shrugged. "I only used them thousands of times. I just can’t see ‘em this time."

After a minor struggle up the stairs, all four Monkees relocated to the upstairs bedroom. Mike dug out a flashlight after helping Micky sit on his bed.

"What are you doing, Mike?" Davy asked, drawing curiosity from Peter, also.

Mike walked back over to Micky, holding the flashlight. "I’m just gonna look at your eyes, Mick. Let me know if you see anything, even just a little bit of light."

Micky swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting his voice anymore.

Mike shined the light directly to the left of Micky’s head. "Anything?"

Micky shook his head. Mike tried the right side, "Now?" Again Micky shook his head.

Mike sighed. "I didn’t want to, but I’m gonna shine this light right into your left eye, then the right, okay, Mick?" Micky nodded, and Mike moved the beam of light. He couldn’t see anything unusual. "Can you see any light?"

"Uh--a little, right in the middle," Micky stammered.

"Is that good?" Peter asked, voicing what they all were wondering.

"Yeah," Mike replied, "but we’ve gotta get you to a doctor. He can figure out if it’s only temporary."

"What if it isn’t?" Micky asked, his voice waivering. He couldn’t imagine never being able to see again.

"We will deal with that, if that’s the situation. Right now, I think you should get some sleep, since you were tossing and turning earlier."

Micky frowned. "You weren’t asleep."

"You weren’t snoring, Mick, I knew you were awake," Mike stated. "Do you want all of us to stay?"

"No," Micky said, shaking his head, "Davy, Pete, you guys can go back downstairs if you want. I’ll be okay."

"You sure?" Davy checked.

"Yeah, I’ve got Mike here."

"You guys go," Mike confirmed. He watched Peter and Davy leave the room, Peter closing the door after them. He turned back to Micky.

"Mike?" He paused, "Mike, I’m scared..."

"Don’t say that, Micky--"

"But I am! I don’t think I can handle being... blind." He sniffed.

Mike watched a tear roll down his friend’s cheek. He put a hand on Micky’s shoulder. "You aren’t alone in this. No matter what happens, we’re here."

Micky sniffed again and nodded.

* * * * *

The next afternoon the door to the Pad opened and Mike came in first, stopping to hold the door open. Davy came in next, followed by Micky, who held his head down, with an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Mike closed the door after them and watched Peter direct Micky to the couch, and not once, even after sitting, did Micky raise his head.

"I can’t believe that doctor didn’t know what’s wrong," Davy commented.

"I’d suggest a second opinion if the first opinion hadn’t wiped out what little money we had saved up," Mike said, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched Micky’s head dip down farther, his hands almost covering his face completely now.

"I’m sorry, fellas," Micky mumbled, more into his hands than to them.

"What are you sorry for?" Peter asked. "You didn’t do anything."

"Yes, I did," Micky said, finally lifting his head, but stared straight ahead. "I just had to pull out that chemistry set and create a vial of... something I don’t even know what it is that made me go blind! I’d say it’s my fault."

"But you didn’t know that would happen," Davy countered.

Micky threw his arms out, causing Peter to move quickly out of the way of a flailing arm. "We wasted our last little bit of savings because of me!"

Mike had enough. "Micky, would you cool it? We aren’t blaming you."

"I am." Micky dropped his arms, again causing Peter to move. "I don’t deserve help from you guys." He stood. "I’m going upstairs." He started slowly, trying to figure out where the stairs were in relation to the couch. Peter made a move to go after him, but Mike stopped Peter.

"Don’t," Mike said to Peter, quietly, shaking his head.

Davy joined them. "He’s gonna hurt himself, Mike."

"He’ll be fine. I hate to say it, but he has to get used to it. Until we find out if there’s a chance this is only temporary, Micky has to get used to not having us help him every moment."

They watched Micky get closer to the stairs and put his hands out. He got close enough and touched the opposite side where he managed to find the railing. He felt his way around to the other side and clung to the railing as he ascended the stairs. At the top, he stopped a moment, outstretched both arms again and moved forward, feeling for the doorknob to the room. He found it with minimal difficulty and went it, closing the door after.

"He made it okay," Peter commented, stating the obvious.

* * * * *

It was almost midnight by the time Mike went up to the room he shared with Micky. He opened the door and was greeted by a pitck-black room. He grabbed his pajamas and slipped out, headed for the bathroom.

Mike returned several minutes later and headed for his bed. He got comfortable and laid there. And he stayed like that atleast an hour. Then he heard a bit of rustling.

"Mike? You awake?" Micky’s whisper was so quiet, Mike almost didn’t hear him.

Mike figured Micky didn’t want to wake him if he’d fallen asleep... but if he had something to say, why didn’t he speak up an hour ago? "Yeah, Mick, I’m awake."

"Did I wake you?"

"No, you didn’t. Why are you awake?"

"Can’t sleep." His voice waivered again. "What time is it?"

"A little after one a.m.," Mike replied.

"Oh."

"You know I wish I could do more to help you, don’t you?"

More rustling as Micky rolled over, following the sound of Mike’s voice. "Yeah, I know." He paused. "I don’t know if I can still play the drums without being able to see them."

"Is that what’s bothering you?" Mike glanced over at him, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. He wondered briefly if Micky’s eyes might adjust to their own darkness, eventually. He could see they were open, but not looking anywhere in particular. It all seemed too odd, like a nightmare.

"Mostly. Davy’s not as good as I am."

The crack brought a small smile to Mike’s face. That was the first wise-ass comment from Micky since the whole ordeal began. "I’ll agree with you on that one, Mick."

Several minutes of silence passed before Mike heard Micky sniff. "I can’t get used to this, Mike, I just can’t."

"We’ll figure out something, Shotgun."

Another sniff. "Why do you only call me that when I’ve done something stupid lately?" Micky gave a small chuckle.

"Good question. I don’t know." Mike paused. "Why don’t you try to get some sleep. Who knows, maybe that’ll help."

"Maybe. I wonder..." More rustling as he rolled over onto his back. "I wonder if I could forget if my eyes are open or not."

Mike did all he could to not let go of a small laugh at that thought. "Go to sleep, Micky, so that I can get some sleep. It’s almost one thirty."

"Okay," Micky conceded. "And thanks."

"You’re welcome."

* * * * *

Several days later, the drum riffs to Mary, Mary could be heard. Mike and Peter looked on at what was going on on the band stand. Peter beamed widely, while Mike had a satisfactory smile crossing his face.

Davy stood behind the drum kit, keeping up with the beat.

...But it was Micky who provided the drum riffs, while Davy looked on. He stood there in case Micky lost where he was on the kit.

Davy clapped after Micky finished. "Mick, that was great!"

Peter crowed happily from his seat, leaning over to hug Mike, who rolled his eyes, but kept his smile.

Micky smiled. "I don’t know how I did it. You know, I did mess up a little--"

"Micky..." Mike said, giving him a stern look, then shook his head. And realized he couldn’t pick up on either. He sighed. "You did great, Shotgun."

Davy slapped Micky on the back. "You had to’ve done good. We’re your toughest critics."

"Okay, okay," Micky held up his hands, still holding the sticks. "What’s next?"

Mike tapped his chin as Davy and Peter looked to him. "How about... Randy Scouse Git?"

Micky dropped the drum sticks. "But, Mike..."

"It’s all set up, don’t worry," Davy said, picking up the escaping sticks.

"The tympani’s where I usually set it up?"

"Go for it, Micky!" Peter cheered on.

"The mallets are set on it, just how you like. And I just put your sticks right in front of you," Davy told him.

Micky took in a sharp breath, reached for the mallets... and found them easily. He smiled. "This could work." He raised the mallets. "Count it off, Dave!"

* * * * *

"Guys, supper’s ready!" Davy called out.

Peter came running, while Mike approached in a slightly slower manner. All three crowded around the table.

"Hey, guys," Micky called out from the second floor. "I’ve been working on something else." Three heads turned to face him as he set himself up on the banister.

"He’s gonna bloody kill himself," Davy muttered.

"Micky, I wouldn’t do that," Peter cautioned.

"Why do we have no control over him?" Mike questioned.

Micky heard the comment and stuck his tongue out, trying to aim it in the direction of the voices. He ran his hands over the banister to get a feel for exactly where he was.

Micky didn’t tell them, but he had been practicing sliding down the banister. He’d started near the bottom in case he fell, which he did several times. So far, though, the farthest he’d gotten was half way up. He hadn’t tried the whole set of stairs. He took in a breath, thought a quick prayer that he wouldn’t break his neck, and started the slide.

One perfect corkscrew and he reached the bottom safely, but his dismount left something to be desired: Micky was caught by surprise when there was no banister left and fell to the floor head-first, smacking his forehead. He groaned as it felt like fireworks went off behind his eyes.

The others rushed over, finally getting over the shock of his misjudgement and falling.

"Micky?" Mike said, seeing if he was still conscious.

He groaned again as they rolled him over. Micky’s eyes blinked open and continued to blink quickly.

"What’s he doing?" Peter asked.

"Morse code?" Davy said, with a shrug. "Don’t say it like that, he’s awake."

Micky reached a hand up and rested it on Mike’s shoulder, with a bit of uncertainty. "Mike..." he began, slowly, "...you... need a shave..."

Mike ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and cocked an eyebrow, before both eyes widened.

Micky smirked. "Guess all I needed was a good conk on the head." He kept blinking.

"How come you keep blinking?" Davy repeated Peter’s question.

"It’s bright in here," Micky answered simply.

* * * * *

Epilogue . . . . .

"Mike, I can’t take it anymore," Davy said, looking on.

Mike stood next to him, arms crossed over his chest. "Three days and he’s still going strong."

Micky joined them. "What’s going on?" He noticed what they were looking at. "Oh... awe, Pete, no."

Peter looked up from the chemistry set. "What’re you guys staring at?"

"That set is dangerous! Didn’t you learn anything from this past week?" Micky said.

"Yeah, I did," Peter replied, then sneezed. "But I still need a cure for my hay fever!"

The End