Cause and Effect

Chapter 5

sciamachy [s-cia-mach]

(n). fighting against imaginary enemies; fighting against your own shadow

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He woke up in a bed, which threw him off for a solid five minutes, and he stared at the room around him confused, wondering where his car went. Rolling out of bed, his head pounding, he realized he was still in his clothes from the night before and he desperately hoped he didn't do anything dumb while he was blacked out the night before. He pawed at the door, managed to swing it open, and stumbled out, just now registering that he was in Abigail's motel. 

He made it out to the lobby, before slumping back into one of the threadbare chairs out front. Abigail glanced at him over her desk. 

"He lives." She said drily. "Drunk yourself into a coma last night there, John."

He shrugged, not wanting to talk to anyone while his head was still throbbing. Glancing over at her, squinting against the lighting, he licked cracked lips, patting down pockets. "Do I owe ya?"

"Owe me?" She repeated staring at him, and he nodded, trying to find any sort of bills in his crumpled clothes. 

"For the room." He slurred. 

"Oh," she shook her head. "Nah, don't worry 'bout that, put it on your tab." She winked at him, and he scoffed, pushing himself up out of the chair. 

"Don't do that," he made for the door. "I don't deserve that, all that fuckin' charity."

"Ain't charity." She replied cooly. "If a friend did it out o' the kindness of their hearts." 

"Right." He said, hand on the door, his weight pushing it open. "Ain't no kindness out there that doesn't come back and demand a favor." 

He stumbled out, the sun hitting him full in the eyes and he raised a hand to cover his eyes against the light. His car was sitting out still tucked away where he had left it last, and he made his way to it, pulling his keys out of his pocket. 

The close confines of his car calmed him, and he spent a few minutes checking that all his things were still in their respective places before dropping behind the wheel, pulling a cigarette out, and lighting up. He sat there for a while, windows cracked, smoke filtering out, while he sat and nursed his hangover, and thought for a while. 

Colm O'Driscoll had made it abundantly clear that he hadn't liked him, hell, he had gone as far as threatening him. Fine, that wasn't the first time, and John was sure it wasn't going to be the last time it would happen either, but he needed money, and the promise of having over a few thousand kept him at Valentine instead of running. 

Arthur had seemed pretty adamant about him getting up and making tracks, seemed pretty unnerved by the O'Driscoll rancher. John couldn't figure out why. Then again, Arthur was pretty adamant about most things, he was intense at the very least. So maybe he just wanted John gone, playing on Colm's baseless threats. He didn't really like John all that much, and god knew John didn't really like Arthur all that much either. 

He decided to skip out on work for the next few days, anyway, to test the waters between him and Arthur, to see what the man really wanted with him. As he settled into his seat and lit up another cigarette, he firmly decided he would not stoop down to play whatever hell game those men were playing. 

He felt his eyes get heavy, and he adjusted his seat, lazily smoking and staring out of the car window. 

"Goddamn hangover," he muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes when the light got too bright, and flicking the still burning cigarette out the window. He felt sick now, and curled up in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position to at least rest in.