The Door

Two

"You ok, bud?"

Through flashes of light like mini suns exploding in his eyes, Steven nodded to the man on the next table.

"Fine," he said, his voice hoarse. "Just went down the wrong hole."

The man had switched off to him after hearing the word 'fine' and had resumed his conversation with his colleagues. Steven took a series of deep breaths to steady himself. What just happened? What was going on? Where was he?

The energetic woman was speaking rapidly to the person he couldn't see. Steven tried to concentrate on her, focussing his attention to try and make sense of his situation. The other person spoke again, briefly. An answer to something she had said. He couldn't make out the words but, for some reason, he recognised the tone. The person, a man, was smiling as he spoke. It could be heard in the lilt of his voice. It was a low voice as if he was speaking from deep down in his boots.

The sound which escaped Steven was something akin to a tight squeal. A yelp from a kicked dog. He raised his hand to his brow and found he was sweating. The man spoke again and needles seemed to slide into Steven's eyes. The throb in his head moved to his temples, becoming a pulse of pain which shook his body.

"Mate?" The group at the next table were watching him. One had picked up his plate and cup, worried in case the fevered man next to them might knock them over or contaminate his breakfast. The younger one who had offered concern moments before started to reach out. Steven pulled away but the man's hand was still moving. As it touched his sleeve, he cried out. At the point of contact a searing fire flared beneath the skin causing him to wrench his arm back, knocking over his cup. The coffee was thrown across the table, a black spray which Steven abruptly wished he could lose himself in.

"Sorry!" he muttered as he stood, his chair falling backwards, hitting the wall behind.

He grabbed a napkin and tried to mop up the coffee but only served to spread it further.

"Come on," said the man. "It's ok. It's just a coffee. Let me get you another."

Again the contact. Again the fire. Steven felt as if his legs were going to buckle and pushed himself away. He ran towards some small stairs with a 'Toilet' sign above them. Trying to take them four at a time, he felt his foot catch the lip of one, sending him sprawling. He scrambled to his feet and ran into the washroom. A small, balding man in a suit was coming out and had to move quickly to avoid being bashed into.

"Watch it!"

The word 'sorry' did its best to be heard but the gagging sounds swallowed it whole, waiting excitedly for the rising sickness. The lights were bright. Too bright. Painfully so. He shielded his eyes and leaned against the ceramic surface of the sink, the cool hardness calming him. He was panting. Drooling. He wiped the spit on his sleeve then balked at how disgusting the move was. Pulling some tissue from the dispenser, he wiped his arm then splashed cold water on his face.

The door opened and, through eyes squinting at the light, he saw the man from the table enter.

"Hey, are you ok? Should I call someone? An ambulance?"

Leave me alone!

Steven shook his head. Go. Just go. Leave. Please. Why couldn't he say these things? Why were the words clogging his throat, threatening to strangle him if they were allowed to be free?

"Come on mate. Let's get you sat down. I'll get you some water. A doctor, maybe."

The man's arm wrapped Steven's shoulders in a mantle of torturous agony. His elbow reacted before he knew it was moving. It connected with the other's jaw making his head snap back with a crunch. A piece of bitten off tongue fell into the basin and blood spattered the bowl but neither noticed. The man vainly tried to fight back as Steven advanced on him, one hand on his throat and theother on his chest, pushing him into the cubicle. He fell back as his legs hit the toilet. He looked up at his assailant's face. His scream was choked off before it could be fully voiced.