Haunted once again by the nightmares of his childhood, Pete is beginning to fear that these twisted scenes may be more than figments of his imagination, that they may be trying to warn him of somet...
I rub my neck and take a deep breath, my throat no longer constricted with dirt.
The window across from me is broken, the sharp, chunky pieces of glass scattered all over the floor.
I swallow, tasting the sour residue from the bile, my shirt, the side of the bed, and the floor doused in ick.
I look at Patrick, he's sitting at the foot of the bed now, staring at me for an answer, some explanation.
How could I give him one if I don't even know what happened?
"Yeah, I, uh, I'm fine," I say, coughing and tugging my shirt over my head.
"Still getting them?" Patrick questioned.
Everyone knows about my nightmares, I've had them as long as I can remember.
"What did you throw?" he asked, picking up a piece of glass that landed on the foot of the bed.
"I think it was my Sidekick," I say, noticing it's empty place on the nightstand.
"You're screwed if that thing broke, your whole life is on that thing."
"I know, I'll look for it in the morning," I say, feeling a sense of relief wash over me as Patrick stands to inspect the damage, he hasn't yet noticed the bile.
I scramble to cover the side of the bed with the extra blanket and drop my shirt onto the floor and make sure that all the ick is hidden under the shirt.
"There," Patrick said, stuffing a pillow into the hole in the small window.
I laugh,"We're fucking rock stars and we end up in a cheap motel with cheap glass and blinds that don't work. This is the life, isn't it?"
"Just don't go Rambo on the pillow, OK?"
I nod and Patrick stands up,"I'm gonna go find something to clean all this up with," he says walking out the door.
I watch him leave before climbing out of the bed, rushing into the bathroom and changing my clothes.
I rush back into the room and whip the sheets off the bed, scurrying to clean up the rest of the mess.
I grab the ick-covered shirt off the floor and toss it into the sink, taking a towel off the rack and cleaning the floor as best I can, a bitter odor rising from the cheap, stained carpet.
I know I need to hurry, Patrick will be back any second now.
I swiftly kick the soiled towel under the bed and grab the dirty sheets off the foot of the bed, wadding them up and tossing them to the side.
I'll deal with those later.
I fling open the closet and discover a clean set of sheets on a shelf at the top.
I wrestle on the fitted sheet and quickly toss the top sheet over it, only to have one of the corners snap back.
"Whatcha doing?" Patrick asks, cocking an eyebrow and walking into the room, scooping the glass onto a black dustpan and dumping it into the trash can.
"Uh..." I stutter, throwing the quilt over the sheets and sitting down.
"What the hell happened there?" he gestures to the floor that I had attempted to clean.
"I threw up," I admit.
Patrick's expression softens,"You gonna be able to do the show?"
I cough again, still feeling a little sick.
I take a tissue from the box on the night table and blow my nose, standing up.
I walk over to the trash can but stop, snatching my eyes shut.
"Ouch, shit," I groan.
"I, uh, missed a piece," Patrick laughs.
I lean on the wall, lifting my foot up and whipping the large triangular piece of glass out of my foot as blood oozes from the wound.
"Gross," I mutter with a smirk, tossing the shard into the can and hobbling over to the bed, extracting a band-aid from the bedside table drawer and sticking it to my foot.
"You know what's weird?" I asked, laying back down and tucking my hands behind my head on the pillow.
"Weirder than you throwing your phone out the motel window?"
I smirk, "Yes, weirder than the phone," I say, my voice laced with sarcasm,"I cut my foot in my nightmare."
Patrick nods thoughtfully,"Cowinkydink," he laughs,laying down on the pull-out,"Sometimes nightmares come true."
I open my mouth to say something, but hesitate.
I know I'll have to tell him sooner or later.
I have to tell someone.