Operation Sal | Sally Face x Travis Phelps

10

When Travis woke up on Friday morning, his body was already racked with nervous, cold shivers. His hair was sticky and plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving. The thin blanket was draped over his chest, the back of his head pressed deep into his pillow. His breaths were shallow and quick-paced.

   He had dreamt of shiny blue eyes, of wandering, gentle hands, adorned with black nails, of a silvery mask nestled into his neck, whispering, humming, laughing.

   It was warm, so warm. It engulfed him entirely, made him smile, made him feel safe, and the thought of that was, well, sickening, to say the least.

   He awoke to a cold room with clammy palms and a swirling pit of horror in his stomach.

   The dream was no nightmare, but the aftermath certainly was.

   He huffed, swiping the thin layer of sweat off of his forehead, realizing that the visual of Sal smiling at him with his eyes, the visual of him laughing and leaning against his chest, lacing their fingers together, brushing his hair out of his eyes, was one of the best dreams he'd ever had in his life. The reality of that was terrifying, to say the least. It replaced the warmth and comfort with a polarizing cold and confused frustration.

The sound of his father marching around downstairs just made it worse.

Travis swung his legs off of the bed and stood up, rubbing a trembling hand over his face and wincing when his fingertips grazed the seemingly permanent, aching bruise that encompassed his right eye.

All he could think about was how much gentler Dream-Sal's fingers were as he cupped his face with all of the care in the world.

Travis shivered. He'd have to ride home with him today.

He couldn't back out now. He didn't want to ride home in the snow, and he desperately didn't want to put up a fight with the Fisher-Johnson brothers. A twisting of his stomach made him aware of the fact that he didn't want to see Sal's blue eyes frowning at him through the prosthetic either, disappointed and upset.

He sighed and went about getting ready for the day. He messed with his dry, dead mess of bleach blonde hair until it looked semi-presentable. Afterward, he brushed his teeth and cleaned the anxious sweat he'd accumulated upon waking up from his dream off of his face.

When he walked back into his bedroom, a faint buzz sounded from under his pillow.

Knowing it was a notification from Sal, Travis attempted to quell the vigorous thumping in his chest and turned towards his closet, pulling out a selection of neatly folded clothes.

As he pulled off his t-shirt, he glanced into the tall mirror to his left, taking in the sight of his upper body.

He was scrawny with a smooth, flat stomach and slightly protruding joints. His cross was still dangling around the base of his neck, glimmering in his reflection. For a moment, Travis paused and ghosted his fingertips over the blue and yellow bruises scattered on his chest before turning and angling his head over his shoulder to look at the larger ones on his back.

They were healing, aching only when he bent over or twisted into unwise positions.

Travis looked away from his reflection to pull a clean shirt on. He swapped out his pajama pants for jeans a moment later and put his nighttime clothes in the laundry basket tucked into the corner of his closet.

   Once he was clean, dressed, and finished with his morning prayer, he turned back to his pillow and swallowed, pulling his cellphone out from where it was buried under it.