Thunder causes the whole room to shake, and a strike of lightning flashes closely after.
I pull the covers over my shoulder as I roll over to face the window. The clock reads 4:39. I watch it for a while, willing it to turn. When it doesn't, I find something else.
I can see the outline of George on the floor. I don't remember him moving from the bed, so he must've done it after I fell asleep.
My mind glazes over our conversation last night. George and I have never really talked before this trip, so I never imagined I would tell him that. He now knows my darkness, my fears and my nightmares.
I know I shouldn't be embarrassed; everyone has their things that take sleep away from night to night. It's a universal experience that humans have to deal with. I let out a sad sigh, wishing there was an easier way to go through pain. Sometimes I wonder about how other people cope through life; how do they keep going when they've hit their rock bottom?
My eyes follow Goerge's movements as a distraction, watching his chest rise and fall. I begin to wonder what George's darkness is; what keeps him from sleeping? How does he go on living through everything?
Thunder booms once more, and I close my eyes before the lightning flashes.
O O O
I wake up for the second time this morning; the clock reads 10:56 this time. George is laying down, facing his phone.
His eyes flit up at the movement of my waking, but he doesn't say anything. It feels like a silent truce after last night. We momentarily decided to call for a cease fire while stuck in such small proximity.
I grab my own phone, scrolling through Tommy's texts and screenshots of the storm right on top of us. For emphasis, the thunder rolls once more.
"I called the mechanic," George says, careful not to break the quiet morning with his voice, "He said they're not working today because of the storm, but they'll call once they open."
"Oh," I say, soaking in his words. Everything always seems harder to comprehend right after you wake up. "Oh," I add once it registers that it means we're stuck in this motel for at least the next day.
"Yeah." George chuckles. "Everything is basically closed."
"Hm," I hum, too lazy to fully respond.
We both go back to our phones, laying in bed being our only option now. The quiet between us doesn't feel uncomfortable or tense. We're just two people living simultaneously for once.
When Instagram and Twitter feel completely scrolled, I sit up straight to stretch. George's eyes stay on his screen, focused on a video.
I stand from the bed. My feet are cold as I cross the floor to the window. The rain sounds more than the patter it was last night. I open the curtain to see it's still dark despite being almost noon. The rain is falling consistently, hitting the window, ping after ping.
In the distance, across the parking lot, I notice lights shining through the darkness. "What's that?" I ask George, pointing to the small building.
George sits up to see what I'm pointing to. "Oh, it's a gas station. I saw it on google maps yesterday."
"Oh." I let the curtain fall. It doesn't close all the way, but I don't fix it, liking the slip of rainfall sounding through the room.
George is still sitting on the floor. I could sit back in the bed, but it feels as if I had already laid there for days on end. I check the clock; we haven't even been here for twenty-four hours, and I'm already feeling claustrophobic from the beige-colored walls.
I sit down on the ottoman. It's just big enough that I can crisscross my legs. George sets his phone face down in his lap, but he keeps his hand touching the back of the phone case
"How did you sleep?" he asks; his voice is cautious.
I meet his eyes, thinking there might be more to his question, but his brows are furrowed in curiosity. After my trouble falling asleep last night, he's genuinely wanting to know.
"Good," I say before realizing that might not be enough explanation, "Dreamless."
"Good," he repeats my words.
I swallow once. This whole talking thing doesn't seem to be our thing at the moment.
George lets out a long breath of air before announcing, "Well, I'm bored."
I laugh, happy he broke the tension. "This might be worse than sitting in a car."
"Speak for yourself, you get to drive at least." George huffs before standing from his spot. He searches the drawers and closet, rummaging through their emptiness with no remorse. It takes a couple laps around the room before George comes up with an idea. "Do you have a hat or something like that?" he asks.
My brows furrow before remembering I actually do. "I have Quackity's beanie," I say, "Would that work?"
George glances at me, blinking once. "Um, yeah, yeah that would work."
I stand from the ottoman, reaching into my bag to fish out his black beanie. I throw it towards George, who catches it with ease.
"So," George tries for conversation now, "why do you have his beanie?"
"He left it at my house when he visited a while ago." My eyes follow George's movements as he opens the motel room's desk drawer.
George pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. He sits down at the desk. "Oh, that makes sense."
"Yeah."
George rips a piece of paper off of the pad. Then, he spins the chair to face the bed, and he throws the beanie back to me. "Here," he explains, "sit on the bed and open it like a bowl."
With nothing better to do, I go along with his antics. I sit on the bed now with the beanie outstretched in front of me.
George crumples the paper up. He lifts it to aim. "Ready?"
I smile, realizing what he's doing now. "Yeah."
He throws the paper, only to miss. The ball falls onto the bed; I pick it up, throwing it back to George.
"When's your birthday?" I ask him after a few tosses back and forth; each attempt failing to land in the beanie.
He throws the ball. "November 1st."
The ball falls near my knee. I pick it up and toss it back to him. "That's not too far away."
"Not really." He throws it again.
The ball falls off the bed. Instead of making me get up to grab it, George rips a new sheet off the pad, crumpling it up and trying again.
The ball hits my thumb, close to the beanie. "Does that scare you?"
He catches the ball after I throw it. "What do you mean?"
"Getting older," I say, "Time running out and all?"
George shakes his head, tossing the ball back and forth between his two hands. "I think I'm doing pretty good right now, so I guess no?"
"Hm." I watch him rip two more papers off the pad.
"What about you?" he asks as he crumples them, "Are you scared of aging?"
I lean forward to see what he's doing, shaking my head slowly. For someone who's been surrounded by death for the majority of their life, aging doesn't scare me one bit.
George attempts to juggle the three balls of paper. After getting into a routine, they all fall, scattering across the room. He picks up the pad of paper again.
"Do you live alone?" he asks, ripping off one more piece.
"Yeah."
He creases the paper in half. "I used to live alone," George comments, "I thought that I really liked it."
My eyes flit from the paper to George's facial expressions. His brows are creased in concentration.
"As in past tense?" I ask.
He nods slowly, more focused on the paper than the conversation. "I don't think I realized how lonely I was until I moved to America."
His words carry weight but they are said absentmindedly. I watch his hands move across the paper; I have a feeling he hasn't really ever said those weighted words to very many people.
"What are you doing?" I ask softly as if my question might stop him.
He picks up a pen. His eyes meet mine with a mischievous glint. "One second."
He turns the chair away from my, writing something on his sheet of paper. He folds it once, then twice before revealing his masterpiece to me.
"A paper airplane?" My brows raise. "What in the world were you writing?"
George throws the plane in response. "See for yourself."
I barely catch it between my index finger and thumb. I slowly unfold the paper, revealing a single scribble across the inside of the plane.
STINKY
My jaw drops jokingly. I hold my hand out expectantly, and a pen falls on the bed in front of me.
I glance at George before turning to use the side table as a hard surface to write on. I scribble the word LOSER before following the lines George folded.
My throw lands the plane at George's feet. He chuckles at the failed throw as he picks it up. His jaw drops so far I think it might hit the floor. His scribbles are angry.
The plane glides in the air before landing in my lap. I glance up at George, who is waiting patiently on his swivel chair. "How did you throw it so well?"
George mimics the throwing motion. "All in the wrist," he explains.
I nod, more interested in opening the plane up to read his message.
YOU'RE A JERKFACE
I roll my eyes. I use the side table again to write.
YOU STARTED IT
I fold the plane once more. "In the wrist?" I ask for clarification.
He nods, and with that reassurance, I throw the plane again. It's not perfect, but George is still able to catch it. It takes two seconds before it's flying in the air to me again.
NO BUT I WILL FINISH IT
I don't even bother writing a message. I quickly fold and throw the plane back at him.
He wasn't expecting the object to fly back so quick, nor for it to be a decent throw. The plane hits him right in the forehead.
He jumps back, hitting the table in the process. He shakes his head before setting the plane to the side. Our little game is over for now.
author's note:
what are we thinkin guys?
hope you all have an amazing day <