to his pillow by his own vomit. He lay in the bed naked, his body covered in a layer of sweat. The mattress was soaked.
He sat up, groaned, grabbed his forehead with both hands. The small hangover he had only yesterday was a puppy compared to the snarling, thrashing pitbull in his skull this morning. He had no idea when he had stumbled into the motel, but remembered the stairs being particularly difficult to climb. The liquor held okay, and though he’d lost count of how many shots he’d taken, he managed to keep it down. Until he entered his room. The smell and mustiness was waiting for him. Though the air conditioner hummed, it did nothing to change the smoldering temperature. The moment he stepped in and shut the door behind him, his stomach had had enough.
A large splatter of puke lay on the carpet just inside the door, his footprints smashed into it leading to the bed. He remembered puking a second time in the bed, but he had been too exhausted and sick to move, so he just closed his eyes and slept in it. He touched the side of this face and grimaced at the hardened gunk caked to his cheek and ear.
“Oh…jesus…”
Standing was nearly impossible, but he forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. He kept his eyes opened to mere slits as the harsh sunlight razor-bladed into the room through the blinds. Even with his back turned to it, the light made his temples pulse.
He aimed his dick over the water, and leaned against the wall with his arm, burying his forehead into the crook of his elbow. The piss was dark yellow, almost orange, and it splashed against the brim of the toilet, sprinkling his feet with hot urine. He shifted his aim and moaned, hating himself more and more each second.
Marta. Her face came screaming into his mind through the fog of his hangover.
Did I hear her voice? A banging on the door?
He couldn’t be sure if it was a dream or not. The knocking could have been his temples throbbing. Marta did fill his dreams, but the images his mind had conjured for him were nightmare material. She was screaming, so loud and shrill, and covered with blood. Then a gurgly burp exploded from her throat, along with a waterfall of intestines and purple organs.
Just thinking about it sent tremors through Felix’s gut, and before he knew it, he was on his knees, hugging the porcelain. What was left in his stomach poured out of him, a pink frothy broth. The sting leaked into his nostrils. The pressure from puking ignited his headache into another realm, and he leaned his face against the piss-covered brim and gasped, moaned and whimpered.
After the pounding subsided enough for him to get to his feet, he cut the shower on, stepped in, and let the hot water engulf him. The spray was weak and sporadic, but it felt good nonetheless. It was a little too hot, but he left it that way, burning the petrified puke from his face, melting it off in soggy clumps. It still hurt to open his eyes fully, so he kept them at a squint, using the cheap bar soap to scrub away any evidence of the prior night.
God, when Marta sees me, she’s going to flip.
Tonight was the night. They would be heading out to the border, and god knew what would happen next. He still didn’t know what the full plan was. They were going to wear some tattered, old clothing and act like they were Mexican illegals crossing over. Felix wasn’t convinced it would even work. Hell, he didn’t know dick for Spanish, just a few phrases here and there. Enough to get by, but not even enough to have a conversation.
And I’m taking my goddamn driver’s license. Just in case. Hide it under by nuts if I have to.
He planned on taking Marta’s too. At some point when she wasn’t looking he planned to swipe it and bring it along. No way in hell he’d let the two of them rot in some fucking prison just to prove a point.
As far as he knew, though, Marta still wasn’t talking to him. He still couldn’t figure out what he did to deserve that
He sat up, groaned, grabbed his forehead with both hands. The small hangover he had only yesterday was a puppy compared to the snarling, thrashing pitbull in his skull this morning. He had no idea when he had stumbled into the motel, but remembered the stairs being particularly difficult to climb. The liquor held okay, and though he’d lost count of how many shots he’d taken, he managed to keep it down. Until he entered his room. The smell and mustiness was waiting for him. Though the air conditioner hummed, it did nothing to change the smoldering temperature. The moment he stepped in and shut the door behind him, his stomach had had enough.
A large splatter of puke lay on the carpet just inside the door, his footprints smashed into it leading to the bed. He remembered puking a second time in the bed, but he had been too exhausted and sick to move, so he just closed his eyes and slept in it. He touched the side of this face and grimaced at the hardened gunk caked to his cheek and ear.
“Oh…jesus…”
Standing was nearly impossible, but he forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. He kept his eyes opened to mere slits as the harsh sunlight razor-bladed into the room through the blinds. Even with his back turned to it, the light made his temples pulse.
He aimed his dick over the water, and leaned against the wall with his arm, burying his forehead into the crook of his elbow. The piss was dark yellow, almost orange, and it splashed against the brim of the toilet, sprinkling his feet with hot urine. He shifted his aim and moaned, hating himself more and more each second.
Marta. Her face came screaming into his mind through the fog of his hangover.
Did I hear her voice? A banging on the door?
He couldn’t be sure if it was a dream or not. The knocking could have been his temples throbbing. Marta did fill his dreams, but the images his mind had conjured for him were nightmare material. She was screaming, so loud and shrill, and covered with blood. Then a gurgly burp exploded from her throat, along with a waterfall of intestines and purple organs.
Just thinking about it sent tremors through Felix’s gut, and before he knew it, he was on his knees, hugging the porcelain. What was left in his stomach poured out of him, a pink frothy broth. The sting leaked into his nostrils. The pressure from puking ignited his headache into another realm, and he leaned his face against the piss-covered brim and gasped, moaned and whimpered.
After the pounding subsided enough for him to get to his feet, he cut the shower on, stepped in, and let the hot water engulf him. The spray was weak and sporadic, but it felt good nonetheless. It was a little too hot, but he left it that way, burning the petrified puke from his face, melting it off in soggy clumps. It still hurt to open his eyes fully, so he kept them at a squint, using the cheap bar soap to scrub away any evidence of the prior night.
God, when Marta sees me, she’s going to flip.
Tonight was the night. They would be heading out to the border, and god knew what would happen next. He still didn’t know what the full plan was. They were going to wear some tattered, old clothing and act like they were Mexican illegals crossing over. Felix wasn’t convinced it would even work. Hell, he didn’t know dick for Spanish, just a few phrases here and there. Enough to get by, but not even enough to have a conversation.
And I’m taking my goddamn driver’s license. Just in case. Hide it under by nuts if I have to.
He planned on taking Marta’s too. At some point when she wasn’t looking he planned to swipe it and bring it along. No way in hell he’d let the two of them rot in some fucking prison just to prove a point.
As far as he knew, though, Marta still wasn’t talking to him. He still couldn’t figure out what he did to deserve that
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