He scratches the scruff on his face while he looks me over. “Need a credit card and ID.”
“Nah. None of that. I got cash.”
He spits to the floor with a scowl. “Look, kid, I got rules to follow. No ID, no room.”
I grab my wallet out of my pocket, removing a few hundred. “I need a room for a few days. I know this place can’t cost that much. You take whatever the cost is out of that and keep the rest.”
He eyes the money suspiciously. “You in trouble or something?” he asks as he picks up the money and starts counting.
“Or something.”
He looks at me again after he finishes counting. The suspicion has been replaced with surprise and greed. “All right, kid,” he agrees. “I gotta have a name, though.”
“Bryan. Bryan Michaels,” I tell him, knowing my old friend won’t mind.
“Room in the back.”
“Yeah. I can do that.” He spends a couple of minutes gathering a key and towels. “I’m assumin’ you don’t want housekeepin’ comin’ around.”
“You assume correct,” I nod, taking the items from him.
“This should hold ya for a few days then.”
I give a short nod then head to the bike. I feel pretty stupid with a pile of towels in my lap, but it’s not like I have an audience. It’s not like I should care.
I park in front of the room, carrying in the towels and my bag, then walk the bike inside. The room is shit. Dingy wallpaper that has to be from before I was born peels on the walls. The ugly carpet might have been red or something at some point, but now it’s matted and brown. A table sits off in the corner with avocado green vinyl chairs around it and an ashtray on top. At best, the room is unremarkable, but I didn’t come here for comfort. I came here because no one would suspect Maddox Masters of being in a shit hole like this.
Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do. The noise in my head is starting to buzz again. The swirling in my gut and pounding in my chest begins to resurface as it always does. There’s a war in my head between memories I want to forget, music that demands to be heard, and words I can’t get out.
The words. I have to find the words. That’s why I’m really here. The psychiatrist told me to write down my memories. I think she thought it would help me purge my soul. But you can’t purge evil, and that is what I truly am. I am the putrid, vile thing that slithers on the ground seeking to destroy. It’s the way it has always been.
I have a plan. It’s been coming to me in bits and pieces a little more every day. I’ve fought against it for years, but the battle is over. The war is lost. There was never any chance of winning anyway.
But how do I put to words what I feel when I don’t know? How do I explain the shit in my head when I’ve never understood it. Do I tell them about the buzzing? Do I explain that I hear things that aren’tthere? Do I tell them I see things that aren’t real? I suppose the only reason I’ve lasted this long is that I’m aware that it’s in my head.
It’s always been there. When I was a kid, people thought I had imaginary friends. An overactive imagination is what my mom once called it. She just didn’t understand that,to me, they were as real as she was. And they told me to do things—things I knew I shouldn’t but did it anyway. Like the time I broke my arm jumping from the treehouse because I thought I could fly. According to the doctors, it was a normal thing for a four-year-old to believe. Then there was the time I was convinced I could breathe underwater. I tied bricks to my feet and jumped into the twelve-foot-deep pool. No one knows how long I was under, but it was long enough to lose consciousness. Long enough that my stunt resulted in a two-week stay in the hospital with damage to my pre-frontal cortex and aspirated pneumonia, along with no recollection of what happened.
I clench my fists and walk to the phone sitting on the nightstand. Picking it up, I dial the number of the only person I know that will help me without telling anyone about it. It rings and rings with no answer. I slam the receiver back onto its base with a frustrated growl.
My head drops into my hand, gripping my hair by the roots. I can’t think without the drugs. I need to write, but the words are all mixed up.
The ringing phone has me jerking up. I look at the object with wariness. Paranoia runs thick in my veins as I wonder if this is a trap. When it stops ringing, my heart begins to race at a quicker speed. Sweat beads on my neck, and my handsstartto shake.
Then the phone rings again. My vision begins to blur as I reach for the object. I pick up the receiver, my hand shaking so badly I nearly drop it. “H-hello.” My voice cracks with fear, although I’m not sure what I’m afraid of.
“Mads.” I breathe out a sigh of relief, my eyes closing shut at the sound of Bryan’s voice on the other end of the lie. “That you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
I lean back on the uncomfortable bed, rubbing at my temples. The pounding is relentless and getting worse. I hope he can get here fast.
“I was in the bathroom,” he tells me.
I hear the sound of keys jangling in the background. “You on your way?” I ask anxiously. “I need it bad, Bry.”
“I got you, Mads. I don’t know why the assholes want to do this to you.”
“They’re not assholes,” I growl. “They’re worried about me.”
