Sublime Messages

Four, B

The smell was so potent, a vinegary, sour smell, permeating absolutely everything, every aspect of awareness beginning to twinkle in the cosmos of her narrowing mind. Vertigo controlled all of it; she was spinning in a void until all at once it tunneled into a focal point and Vanesa flickered open her dry eyes.

At first she was so disoriented she couldn't understand where she was or what was going on. A warm liquid surrounded her; that, she felt. And some dark thing moved before her vision, a strange shuddering shape obstructing her view. As her sight adjusted, the woman verified first that she was in a tub and second, that the thing in front of her was a butterfly, a black one, with a bright green stripe across its delicate wings. Vanessa was sure it was an illusion, lifted a lethargic hand and tried to wave it away but found she could only fling water droplets.

Water—

Suddenly wide awake, the woman bolted up and found herself submerged in the tub, the hot water now sloshing around her. She pressed a hand to her face, made sure she was in one piece. What had happened? She was still in the motel room. But . . . she'd not drawn a bath, had she? No! She'd gone to start the shower, and . . .

Had someone grabbed her? She'd thought—but no. That must've been a dream, or a nightmare (which would've made more sense if she'd been asleep). But what else could it've been? Here she was in the tub. And it was full . . . oh, she must've blacked out, but how? And how'd she fill the tub if she'd blacked out? The water was still hot. Too hot, really.

Vanessa stood up, noticing the stiffness in her neck, across her shoulders. She searched for any signs she'd been attacked, bruises or scratches on her arms or abdomen, torn fingernails, blood or pain between her legs, but she found nothing to indicate anyone had touched her. Her reflection in the mirror revealed no finger indentations around her throat or marks on her face, and yet the whole thing was entirely unsettling. Realizing she was beginning to shiver, she grabbed a fluff-less off-white towel and wrapped it around herself, then caught sight of the trashcan near the toilet. It was filled with large glass bottles; in fact, it was overflowing, with three or four more on the floor around it. Crouching, Vanessa counted seven total, all empty bottles of Everclear.

"What the Hell is going on—?"

The sound of her own voice startled her, the way it entered the silence almost as an unwelcome intruder, but she had little time to think of it before there was a knock at the motel room door. Not a knock so much as a banging, really; someone was quite insistent.

Vanessa straightened up a little too quickly; dizziness threatened, but she steadied herself and the fuzziness clouding her sight dissipated. She hurried from the bathroom, hair dripping down her back, and dug through her suitcase to find the plush robe she always wore in lieu of pajamas. The towel slipped from her body as she tightened the tie around her waist, and as the knocking continued, she decided to grab her pocket pistol. So prepared, she approached the door. "What is it?"

"You all right? Can I come in?"

The voice—a man's—she'd heard it before, yet she couldn't quite place it. Her initial instinct was to tell him she was fine, he could go, but that hint of familiarity piqued her interest.

Vanessa unlocked and pulled in the door just a bit, then more when she saw who stood on the other side. "You're from the bar," she confirmed. "Arlo."

The man before her, slender and dark-eyed, serious and strong, dressed in that ridiculous band tee, looked past rather than at Vanessa, then pushed through the doorway and into the motel room. In disbelief, the woman watched him. She made no protest as he entered her bathroom, and she said something only when he muttered a loud, "Fuck!" and came back into the living space.