Devoid [Bruno Mars]

Chapter seventeen

Chapter seventeen

Motel Six was a wide rectangular building with two floors and light blue walls covered in grime. The sign that glowed with green and blue fluorescence flickered Mote Si. I walked in briskly, the smell of smoke heavy in the air despite the no smoking sign on the far wall. An older Hispanic man sat behind a desk with a wall of room keys behind him. He spoke on the phone, a large gold chain covering the gray chest hair peeking out of his button down. “Excuse me?”

The man took one look at me and said into the phone: “Espera un momento.” He set it down, not on the receiver. “Yes? May I help you?” His accent was thick.

“A room, please.”

The room smelt of must and the single bed creaked loudly when I laid on it. Not daring to drink water out the sink, I took a pill dry, gathering saliva in my mouth to help it down. As I waited for it to take effect, my mind drifted to moments earlier, about my moment with the stranger Peter. I never pushed him away by impulse. Never felt the pain Bruno brought on me when his fingertips brushed my skin.

It was like my body knew something that I did not. But what? Why would I cower away from Bruno as though he were afflicting pain on me? He never hurt me, never would. I did not understand.

With a frustrated scream I flung the brick for a pillow away from me, my draining energy causing a pitiful throw. The pillow turned over once before sliding off the mattress and dropping soundlessly to the floor. My scream rung in my ears as silence settled like a pile of leaves falling to a rest on the ground. A figure stepped into my line of view, my eyelids were too heavy to fully look at it. “You aren't real,” I whispered.

A hand caressing my cheek; it felt real.

“You're following me,” I whispered. “Why?”

No answer. I curled into myself. The smaller I became, the more I felt it to be easier to disappear.

You are feeling lonely, Adrian. So am I.

And then I fell asleep.

*

Morning light seared through the dusty blinds of the room, highlighting how dirty it was. The carpet stained, how  the mirror over the sink covered your reflection with grime, the mysterious black spots in the corners. The cardboard blanket was up to my ears as I congitated my mother's words about hallucinations. My mind struggled in a losing battle, grasping at nothing. Dizzy, I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, my phone screen lit up.

I cleared my throat before answering. “Hello?”

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

Upon hearing his voice, my eyes closed briefly, as if my body required half a second of absorption for his voice to transport me to a place of familiarity, serenity. “No,” I said softly. “No you didn't.” 

“How are you?”

“I'm. . . good,” I said, failing at sounding firm.

“You don't sound good.”

“I'm alive.” I slowly pushed myself upright, feeling groggy. “How do I sound?”

“Like not you.” There was a rise of alarm in his voice, and a shuffling sound in the background. I imagined him shifting on the bed? Couch? “Everything's okay there? At Brook's?”

“Yeah.” I looked around, stifling a yawn. “Everything's okay.”

“Are you up for meeting me at Phil's place today?”

I agreed. I lied. I wasn't up for conversing with people whom I hardly knew, I was only up for one thing. There was another pill in my hold. I rolled the smooth surface between my fingers. “Except it might be a few hours,” I told him.