Dark Water
He floats in the oversized bath in the ridiculous motel room on the outskirts of Las Vegas. It might have been in style in the 80's. The floor is black tile, the walls are black tile, the counters black tile, the fixtures all lacquered black. The tub is black. It makes the water look black. Like a lake. He thinks the water should be cold instead of hot. His eyes are closed. He floats and lets his thoughts be frivolous.
No Sammy's Destiny, no Weight of the World, no What Dad Did.
He works the tap with his feet, lets more hot water pour in, makes it as hot as he can stand. He floats, his ears submerged so all the noise around him is muffled. The air-conditioning, the odd car driving by. He likes the haziness of not-noise/not-silence. He wonders if Superman really could take Godzilla. He thinks Sam needs a haircut. He hums a single note for as long as he can before running out of breath because it sounds cool underwater. He stretches. He rolls over face down in the water for a second then rolls back, lets the water drip off his face. He just exists.
And the world stays muffled.