O shaped dent

When he woke up the next morning the bed next to him was empty and she was gone. He got up, a little less shaky this morning, went into the bathroom and washed his face. Looking out the heavy wool blinds over the window revealed the Toronado was gone. He couldn't remember if she brought any bags in or not, there were none of her's there now. He put on his jeans and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Okay,” he said, “This is an interesting development.”

He thought about the money, checked his empty pockets, then the jacket. Nothing. He couldn't remember if he'd given her his roll to hang on to or not. He rummaged through his dad's army bag, diggin through it's ragged assortment of contents. His pistol was still there. He picked it up and held it. The weight of it made him feel a little more secure.

“Okay, do not freak out. She's gone and she might have robbed you on the way out the door.”

Billie Joe did not freak out. However he did stand up and pace around the room, talking to himself for the next ten minutes gesturing occasionally with his firearm. Eventually he fell into the leather chair by the desk. The minutes ticked by as he kept to keep his breathing calm. After thirty minutes his mind began to turn on him, the storm clouds in his head gathered into the black swirling vortex of fuck. He was strung out in the middle of Pennsylvania with no money, a pistol and a half empty bottle of Early Times. It was not a good look.

Something had to be done, he decided. Before long the panic would win and this quaint little room would be four hellish cinderblock walls that was only slightly better than whatever fresh hell would be waiting outside. He'd been in this room before, but with a little money, drugs and no gun. No, he hadn't been this far out, this alone. Before long the barrel end of the gun would find itself to his temple and make a small “o” shaped dent there like it had before. Something had to be done, he decided, before things got to that point. He stood up again and walked to the mirror, simply because it was one of the few places in the room he hadn't walked to yet. The emaciated frame in the mirror didn't seem like it belonged to him. It was frighteningly gaunt. He couldn't bring himself to look that mirror-person in the eye. All he could see was the gun in his hand. Why even was he still carrying it?

Deciding the mirror was fraught with treacherous possibility, he walked back to the door. He would have to start moving soon. Why the fuck had he let that girl know about his money? All his panic converted easily into a murderous rage framing the image in his mind of Sadie Chantelle Johnson, even though he was unable to recall exactly what her name was. There was the noise of a key inserted in the door and as if he'd summoned her, she turned the handle and came in the room.

She stopped short when she saw him. Half naked, wild eyed and armed, he was breathing heavily, muscles taught to the point you could make out all the veins in his arms and neck. He looked as if he meant to kill her.

“Okay, easy there, cowboy.” she said, holding her hands up. In her left there was a large bag that said “Valley Dairy Restaurant;” it had a grinning cow on it that winked at him. “You don't want any eggs, that's fine, I'll eat em.”

It took him a second to put it all together. Nothing fit the scenario he'd painted in his head. He felt so confused, and tired. When he got something that made sense figured out, he threw the pistol back into his bag and slumped down onto the carpeted floor.

“Ah, Christ. I'm sorry.” he said. “I was convinced you'd robbed me.”

“Nope.” she said, “Still here for some reason.”

She went over to the desk and began unloading covered aluminum to-go plates from the paper bag. A heady breakfast smell filled the room, and that made them both feel a little better. The smell was the embodiment of wholesome.