Sam closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath. He feels wrong inside. Not just tainted-powerful with knife-sharp vision cutting through his skull and red staining his teeth. Not just ripping-festering-empty with guilt-shame-failure because it's my fault it's all my fault i set him free and now
He feels as though his insides are coated with sewage. He bends over the toilet and heaves and heaves until there's nothing left, but there's something left, and the something is too dark and too thick, and tangled and knotted and gunky and black. It twists hard in his gut, and it feels like a living creature, vying for control.
putrid
His lips burn in a snatch of impossible memory. An infant mouth parted, waiting, the first taste of ash on his tongue, a single droplet glistening red and black and toxic and he swallows and opens for more
The tile floor is cool and smooth where his white knuckles press into its surface. It leaches away some of the lingering heat, but it can't take away the smoking smell, the rushing in his ears, the taste of ash and blood in his throat. It can't take away the phantom pull from his fingers, the clenching and unclenching fists. It can't take away the feel of his teeth gripping iron and wood and death, or the sensation of the roof of his mouth tearing apart like fabric, or the sharp, sudden blackness that lasted for exactly five seconds, and five seconds, and five seconds. That stays.
He swallows, and shards of glass and silver and velvety, ruby red bloodguilt seem to scrape down his throat. It's slick against his insides, and he heaves again, knowing it won't come up.
He's being gutted, everything recognizable slowly scooped out and replaced with splintered bone and shredded flesh and stuttering heartbeat and the slow drip, drip, drip of blood on his forehead and oh god Jess no no please no
Sam takes one last shuddering breath before he stands. He flushes the toilet and watches his sick spiral away. He looks at the splattered, overlapping patterns of his blood on the walls for a moment. Then he turns away, tossing the gun back into his duffel and pulling the strap over his shoulder. He leaves the motel room without a second glance.
…
"I will kill myself before letting you in."
"I'll just bring you back."