The rest was brief and the nightmares intense.
Tim startled awake, drenched in cool sweat. His mouth was uncomfortably dry, and his tongue felt like it had been packed in gauze.
He thought he might vomit, but his stomach seemed noncommittal.
When he sat up, Tim Gutterson drove his palms into his eye sockets hard, like he was trying to wring the images from his orbital nerves by force.
He checked the clock and realized he'd been asleep about four hours; it was nearly 2AM. His neck ached, his splenius capitis felt like it had been used for a game of double-dutch as he'd slept; stretched like a canvas and taut with anxiety.
Shower, he thought, slowly, and he nearly crawled off the bed and into the tub, the migraine spreading from his neck up the back of his skull, making its way to his forehead. Each drop of water felt like a bass drum, or maybe a bomb. He could hear the phantom bagpipes blaring raucously in his ears even though he'd turned off the television before he'd gone to sleep.
His brain was screaming for something he couldn't give it. Silence. Peace. Darkness.
Forgiveness? Who fucking knew.
Eventually, he retched into the bottom of the bathtub and closed his eyes rather than watch his sick swirl down the drain in a dizzying reminder of his failures. The dim lights in the motel were too bright. The water droplets too sharp. His skin was too hot, but he was shivering.
This shit, he decided, was why he drank.
At least the bourbon was straightforward. Drink too much, get a hangover. Drink just enough, pass out in a warm puddle of your own drool.
But the memories, the ghosts… there was no reasoning. They came when they felt like it, left when inconvenient, and they took hold of his body in a way he could neither predict nor control. He was a man possessed by circadian turbulence.
Tim's fingers and toes were wrinkled and pale. Too much water.
Not enough water. His mouth was still painfully dry. He opened it and let the stream from the showerhead sate his thirst.
Tim stood, swaying, and stumbled for a towel, wrapping it around his waist with no thought for how much water he trailed behind him on the floor. He considered the bed, decided against it. Sat on the floor and leaned his head back against the chair instead.
He'd been soaking for an hour, but it felt simultaneously like millennia and a minute. He knew he needed to sleep. He knew without rest he would not be able to perform the necessary tasks to get through tomorrow. Today. Whatever.
He thought about calling Kathryn, decided against it.
He needed something to eat.
Tim reached for his go bag, flopping stupidly across the itchy carpet rather than stand again, and dug around until he found a couple of stale granola bars, which he shoved into his mouth in quick succession.
They were the gross oatmeal raisin ones he usually threw away, but they would have to do for now. He couldn't drive anywhere until his vision stopped swimming.
He closed his eyes again, still craning his neck uncomfortably against the chair. The light from the bathroom spilled out of the open door, and he winced against it, turning his head to the side and letting the ugly yellow fabric scratch against his cheek. The sensation was safe and familiar; cheap polyester rubbing his skin until it was almost raw.
He scraped his cheek gently back and forth, focusing on the sensation; ignoring everything else—feeling, thought, memory—until the scratching of the fabric and the repetitive sound it made were all that remained.
#
Tim's mother had favored those ugly floral prints that were so popular in the '80s. When he was a kid, it was rare to see her without an array of gawdy red roses splashed across some part of her outfit, usually paired with acid washed denim and too-big earrings.
When he thought about his childhood, the first thing he saw was a floral vest, polyester and acetate, waiting for him over a chambray button down after school. He'd run up and jump into her arms, and the vest would sting his cheek as he hugged her fiercely.
Well hello, sugar.
But it was her, the warmth of her arms and the low chuckle at his antics, that made the vest feel like home.
His mother had always worn too much perfume. Sometimes he'd walk into her bedroom in the morning to see if she was ready to leave for school and the heady floral scent would sting his eyes. She'd be teasing her hair as big as she could, smiling at him in the vanity mirror and calling him "sugar," which he said he hated, but now secretly missed. And she'd ask why his eyes were watering.
These are the moments he wanted to remember. Not the dinners or the nights. He wanted to remember the sting of her vest, not of his father's hand. Not the tears after.
Come here, sugar, it's okay.
He wanted to smell too much cheap perfume instead of stale beer and cigarettes.
He wanted to believe that he could be like her; smiling and loving even when she had no right to be. Even when her cheek was split open and ugly purple. Even when her arm was in a sling again and she had to go to the dentist to repair the chip in her tooth for the third time.
Even when Tim left her there, alone with him.
Stay safe, sugar. Come back, you hear me?
He refused to think about the last time he'd seen her, too skinny and no hair, and smaller than she'd ever been. No florals or denim or perfume. Just tubes and death and forgiveness he didn't deserve.
No, he would hold on to that fucking polyester vest, pull it close and never let go of it.
Don't let go, sugar.
#
The sun was just slipping in around the curtains. Tim's neck was stiff, but for different reasons this time. He was still on the floor, and his back let him know it had been a bad idea to sleep sitting up.
He wiped the dried drool from his chin, noted the dark stain it'd left on the seat cushion, and pushed himself to his feet. The towel fell to the floor and he shivered, goosebumps peppering his legs and arms.
The headache remained, but it was a dull concerto instead of an agonizing symphony. This he could handle.
It was 5:32, and Tim Gutterson stretched every muscle in his body until it popped and screamed. Then he got dressed, packed his shit, and headed to the nearest gas station for a breakfast sandwich, black coffee with too much sugar, and a bottle of Jim Beam.