Operation Sal | Sally Face x Travis Phelps

32

When Travis manages to cut through the darkness behind his eyes, he's standing in the rain. This image, this moment, is unclear at first, just like always, but he knows he's standing and he knows that he's outside.

He tries to focus his attention, straining to make sense of it all, the faint whining of sirens, now growing louder and louder as he enters the correct headspace, as he forgets where he once was.

The grass beneath him is wet, dewy. When Travis takes a step forward, the muddy ground gives under the weight of his foot.

There's a building standing in front of him, one hundred — maybe two hundred feet away, a tall and familiar brick building. This is Addison Apartments, molded and old, rotting from the inside out.

     The pitiful place looks just about as dilapidated as always, if not more so.

     Travis follows the sound of the sirens and finds himself facing a crowd of police cars. They surround the building, men in uniforms whispering with pale, sickly faces.

     He reaches out towards one of them, though his arm doesn't go as far as he'd intended. "What's going on?" It sounds like he's underwater. The man does not hear him.

     Travis turns back towards the building, his brows taut with apprehension. For a moment there, in the midst of it all, he thinks he sees a flash of blue hair.

      "Sally!" He calls out, his eyes wide and hopeful. He can hardly make out his own words, and as he scrambled to push through the crowd of police officers and get a better look, the vision fades and all is dark.

     When he snaps out of it, he's sitting at the dinner table across from his father, who stares back impatiently with curious eyes. His hand lay on their sides atop the hardwood surface.

     "You're back. What did you see?" Kenneth asks almost immediately, as usual.

     Travis feels nauseous. He swallows and his lip wobbles as he offers up a shaky shrug, "The same stuff as before," he tells him, seeing no reason to lie, "police cars — at night, around the apartments."

     His father clicks his tongue. He seems annoyed with that answer. It's not what he wanted to hear. He practically rolls his eyes. His hands curl into fists against the solid wood of the table beneath them.

     "Travis," he warns, "You're missing the bigger picture. Why are you being shown this? What is the significance?"

     Travis's face scrunches up involuntarily. He's been having a difficult time controlling his facial expressions recently, which is a major problem considering the man he's sitting across from.

He has a wicked headache from having slipped into that scene at Addison's over and over and over again.

     "I don't know," Travis says, a little too curtly, frustrated, "with all due respect, father, it- well, it seems like you'd have a better idea than I would."

"I'm sorry?" His face scrunches up.

"It'd be helpful," Travis says slowly, hating every word that comes out of his mouth, but unable to stop himself, "if I knew what I was looking for. How- How would I know? You haven't explained anything."

His voice isn't right, weak and tired and annoyed all the same. This is not how he's meant to speak to his father. Travis is too exhausted to think clearly, to apologize in time.

Leaning over the table, Kenneth raises a hand and strikes Travis across the face.

His cheek stings, a familiar tingling heat spreading across his skin. Travis lifts his fingertips to it instinctively and parts his lips, swallowing back the shaky breath in his throat. He feels as if he may pass out.