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Euphoria

Chapter 13: Love

Author's note: See? I kept my promise! ;)

Things are going well writing-wise and I've nearly finished the final 2 chapters. So keep up, kids, as we play this thing out...

Tuesday

11:30 am

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After a few minutes she managed to coax him back to the motel room with promises of threadbare but dry towels and a respite from the rain.

She busied herself with collecting all the towels she could find as he sat himself down on the single chair, the seat of which got soaked through. In the end it turned out there were only two towels. They took one each and got to work drying their hair, wringing out their clothes and taking turns to towel off in the bathroom. Luckily Donahue had a spare change of clothes, but Norman had to make do with his shirt and pants after giving them a quick blast from the wheezing hairdryer.

Melissa came out of the bathroom in her dry clothes and hung onto the door frame with one hand. Norman was sitting in the damp chair, gazing into the distance.

"I'm starving," she said pointedly.

Norman looked up. "Me too."

"Well okay. I'll go and get us supplies." She went and put on her shoes which were still sticky with rain. She opened the door a crack. Outside the downpour had become a gentle patter.

"Food, water, maybe a new shirt for you. Is there anything else we need?"

Norman asked for Ibuprofen. He felt better than half an hour ago, but since then a fierce headache had taken over his brain. He knew he'd taken Tripto yesterday. He couldn't think of the last time he'd worn his glasses.

Melissa nodded. "I won't be long."

She shut the door behind her. The rain was almost inaudible now. Jayden took a deep breath and looked around the room. He'd always thought there were few things more depressing than motel rooms. It was a shame that his job led him to them with a dependable frequency.

By the foot of his chair was a handbag. It took him a moment to realise that it must be Melissa's. It was open, and he could see a phone sticking out.

He stood up and opened the front door to yell to his partner, but the parking lot was empty. Droplets of water were trickling down from the awning in front of him. The clouds were moving on, and the sky was glinting with the promise of sunshine. He couldn't see Donahue anywhere.

Norman returned to the room and shut the door. He sat back down in his damp chair. He stared at his hands for a minute, trying to will the headache away. It didn't work, and instead his eyes fell back on the bag by his feet. Before he was thinking about what he was doing, he had leant over and was rifling through its contents.

A compact mirror. Some lip balm. His fingers traced shapes over the items he found inside. Then he felt something hard and large, plastic to the touch. For some reason he pulled it out and held it in his palm. It shone darkly in the dim light. It was a tape recorder.

He knew what he shouldn't do. But a crippling force took hold of him, and he did it anyway.

He rewound a little, then pressed play.

"Three cars. I don't want to say who I think it might be. It's too crazy." His own voice came crackling from the plastic speaker, as if from a distance. This was yesterday. He remembered that much.

"How long have you been sitting out here?" That was Donahue, her voice louder and firmer than his own.

"I'm not sure, a while. Please..."

He rewound further.

"Anyway. He's been on edge for the last few days, twitchy, and not keen to answer when I probe him. His eyes are often bloodshot and he has intermittent tics. I've tried to get answers from him, but I don't think he trusts me enough yet. In fact I'm not sure what to think..."

And he rewound again.

"... is Agent Donahue. I'm recording my investigation into Agent Norman Jayden. I am to discover more about, and if possible confirm or deny, Jayden's relationship with illegal substances as well as how this is affecting his work. Both his ethics and his results. I hope to report on..."

His thumb pressed down on the pause button, hard. The rest of his hand was shaking.

Some kind of poison was taking over. He felt it creeping in from his temples, worming its way around his brain. He hadn't felt it this bad in a while. The tendrils spread down his spine, into his chest and across his forearms until he realised he had thrown the recorder across the room. It lay unaffected on the carpet, its buttons still gleaming black. Buttons with his fingerprints on them now - where hers had once been.

He wanted to throw the chair too, but his brain had a far better idea. Instead he sat backwards and dug deep into his pockets. His fingers grappled with the slick surface of that magical little tube, then freed it from its dark constraints.

He raised the vial to his nose. He felt a brief flicker of regret, but before he could register it properly he was already inhaling.

It was too late, too late, too late and too long since this release.

The room grew longer in front of him. He closed his eyes. His pulse slowed to a leisurely pace. The worm in his head stilled and was quiet. He exhaled slowly, feeling his lungs contract in his rib cage, beside his peaceful heart.

He knew she would return to him at some point soon. His gun was on the table behind him, where he had placed it earlier, in arm's reach. He would be ready.

Time passed like an age, like the blink of an eye.

Eventually Jayden heard the click of heels on the metallic stairs outside. They were coming closer.

He was still sitting on the wet chair, eyes closed. But he was listening.

There was a rattle at the door. Then the sound of plastic bags rustling together, then the lock clicked open and Donahue was speaking as she walked in.

"I'm back -"

Before she could get the words out he had rounded on her with the gun. He held it with both hands and pointed it directly between her eyes, just like they had taught him. She stopped mid-step. Her eyes were golden with confusion and fear. His hands only wavered a little.

The room was dead with silence.

She allowed her eyes to explore. They caught sight of the towel on the back of the chair, the disheveled bed, her forgotten handbag, the tape recorder in the corner, and came to some kind of grim conclusion.

"Who are you, Agent Donahue?" said Norman. He was trying desperately to hide the breaking of his voice, but the Tripto was helping with that.

Melissa took several steadying breaths. "Norman, I'm not here to hurt you. You have to trust me."

He laughed like a bark.

"No, you're just here to spy on me." Then the anger came over him again, a giant rolling wave sending froth all the way to his fingertips. "And how fucking dare you talk to me about trust!"

Her breathing was becoming more erratic. Norman could see a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across her forehead.

"I'm going to put these bags down now," was all she said.

Ever so slowly she lowered her knees until she could release the grocery bags onto the floor. The packets of food fell over and a single apple rolled free onto the motel floor. Then she straightened.

"Well?" Norman urged, allowing the gun to shift a little. He wasn't sure what he was asking for. He wasn't sure what he wanted. All he knew was that he was furious, and frustrated, and if answers didn't come out of her mouth soon he was going to shoot something.

Melissa, meanwhile, was trying to calculate if she could escape through the door, still ajar, or lunge for the pistol in her handbag before he would pull the trigger. Probably not. Her mouth was dry, her fists still clenched at her sides although she had let go of the bags. She didn't think he was going to shoot her. Did she?

How well had she really got to know Norman Jayden?

"Alright," she breathed. "Let me explain." It felt wrong to be telling him. It made it more real, somehow. But more than that, she wanted to do it. She wanted to show him that she'd changed. "Yes, I was sent here to investigate you. But - I'm not interested in that any more. I'm done. With the Bureau and all of it. I don't want to be like them any longer, Norman. No more lies. No more secrets. No more of any of this crap."

She held her hands up to him, palms facing forward. A show of trust. Her eyes sought him out and held him firm in place, even while his hands trembled.

"They've made us do terrible things, Norman. Let's not give them any more."

He stared back into her eyes, and the more he stared the longer and longer the distance between them grew. He didn't think she was lying. His heart wanted more than anything for her to be telling the truth. Please, don't you lie to me too.

His arms felt so heavy.

The anger was dissipating, leaving behind a thick weight on his tongue and making his legs feel weak. Suddenly the Triptocaine seemed to leave his system all at once, and he felt like death. His headache returned even stronger. Like a stalling engine, his brain struggled to take in what she had said, the ramifications, and where it left them both now. What he wanted was for all of it to go away.

Norman dropped his arms. He took several steps backwards then fell heavily onto the bed. He was sober enough to place the gun down beside him without setting it off.

The agent began to heave as great shuddering spasms took him over. He screwed his eyes shut and let them come.

It took Melissa a moment to realise she was out of immediate danger and that Norman looked like he was going to cry. She stepped forward to pick up the gun and place it on the table, emptying the chamber for good measure. The bullets made a clatter on the cheap varnished surface. Then she eased the door shut and the world outside fell away.

She turned back to him. She saw that he had his head in his hands.

Tentatively, inch by inch, she moved closer to him. The bed depressed as she sat beside his shaking frame. Words failed her on this occasion. Instead, she placed her hand on his shoulder, which quivered under her touch. She let everything just hang in place for many long moments.

"I want them to feel justice. I want them to pay for what they've made me become."

He was speaking so softly. It threw his voice all across the room, like he was no longer sitting right next to her. Melissa squeezed his shoulder.

"For a while now it's felt like... like I'm living in a dream. Like each day is an illusion, and I've been wondering when I'm going to slip free." His head was turned slightly away from her, his fair falling in a mess across his bottomless eyes, so when he spoke she could not see his lips move. "Do you know what I mean?" The words were a question, but their sound was not. They fell hollow and dead across Melissa's lap.

"I think sometimes people lose themselves and they have to take time to work out who they are again," he exhaled. "They start drowning in life itself. And they have to fight for themselves through it all, they have to fight back to the person that they were. If you want anything in life you have to stop dreaming and start doing. And I'm so sick and tired of this nightmare. I'm so tired of feeling sorry for myself."

She wrapped her arms fully around him then, and held him there on the bed. "I know, Norman," was all she said.

She knew. She knew.

They hung in peaceful suspense for moments upon moments, like there was a thick pressure holding down their arms and heads and keeping them anchored together in the stillness.

She wished she knew what to do next, but she didn't.

So she brought her lips gently to his temple and pressed them against the skin there. It was damp and a little salty. He remained frozen in her embrace, though her kiss lit up the nerves all along his hairline and down his spine, so comforting, so unexpected.

He reminded her so much of a man she used to know that her heart was starting to ache.

She stayed close to him, resting her head against his. She shifted a little so she could intertwine her hand in his because it felt right. Inside her a battle was going on and Norman thought maybe he could feel it radiating out from her skin, thawing his inhibitions, his fears, his unlocked potential.

"Melissa..." he began. There were many words running through his head. Many ways to finish that sentence. Each one was a crystal moment suspended in possibility, eventualities he could make reality if only he could decide which to pick.

She shushed him like one might shush a small child. "No more speaking," she said.

Then she pushed him backwards with her so they were laying spread-eagled across the bed, and she pulled him closer, and she kissed his eyes and nose and the dry tears on his cheeks, and he enclosed himself in her so tightly that her smell of rain and heat filled his head, and they were falling apart and coming together all at once, and in those moments both of them knew what it meant to stop drowning, stop dreaming and start being.