Operation Sal | Sally Face x Travis Phelps

33

     The energy behind Travis's eye, the glittery, bright rush of power, the surge of sensation into his head — it was just as exhausting as it was exhilarating.

     He hasn't been able to get a full night's sleep, not since his birthday. His face, just a bit more than every other part of his body, hurts like a bitch.

     But the pain isn't what keeps him up, lying in bed, tossing and turning — No, it's the energy itself that drives him absolutely mad.

     Travis doesn't see how it could be anything other than magic. Whether it's some sort of curse or otherwise, he's been made a host for some sort of strange power, a mysticism that has him tugging at his hair in the middle of the night, gritting his teeth, and praying that he'll remain tethered to where he is.

     These visions he's seeing, they're practically tearing him limb from limb. They make his head pound. Hell, he'd rather be beaten to a pulp by the entire Nockfell football team than continue on like this for much longer.

     He wonders what Sal would say, what Sal would think of all this. Travis misses him. He misses everything, being a teenager, sneaking off to the apartment building, his stupid, boring school schedule, but he misses Sally Face most of all.

      At this rate, he was a bit scared that he'd wither away in this house before he ever got a chance to see Sal again. His brow knots up, his lips pressed against each other, forming a firm line across his face. No, he would get out of this, soon. Not today, and likely not tomorrow either, but soon.

     Travis curls his trembling hands into the sheets beneath him. He seems to lift from the bed. His mind is playing tricks on him again. Despite his effort to hang on to this moment, he's fading.

     It's dark again. Travis's head hurts so badly that he thinks he might throw up. This waking dream — if he could call it that —  is different from the one he's been seeing over and over again recently. He's not in the rain in front of Addison Apartments. He's in a building. The walls are composed of stone blocks, neatly arranged in rows, in casing several square sets of bars. The floor is damp and slightly moldy.

      Travis wrinkles his nose and turns his head to peer at the metal poles fixated amidst the stones, they were cages of sorts, holding cells.

     When he steps forward he moves only half as fast as he'd intended. Everything is hazy and confused. There's a queasy feeling in his stomach, one that tells him to run and run and run until he's back in bed with his old, matted teddy bear, away from this dark, foggy, confusing place.

     Instead, Travis inches closer to the first cell on the right, peeking his head around to look inside. He's too startled by what he sees to do anything, his hands balled into white fists at his side, his eyes wide and devoid of hope.

     Huddled in the corner is a man. His clothes are tattered and stained. There are holes in his sleeves and tears along the sides. His curly head of ginger hair is filthy, coated with a thick layer of oil and sweat and dirt.

     Travis's jaw quivers, his body shaking like a leaf. He swallows harshly and forces himself to speak, "...Todd?"

     His voice is just above a whisper, but the noise makes Todd jumps. He's trembling. His eyes are bloodshot. His irises are crimson and angry.

     Travis stares back with a pounding heart. The people in these visions of his had never been able to hear him before. The thought perplexes him so much that he stands, slack-jawed too overwhelmed to say or do anything.

     Todd is breathing heavily. He looks crazed, like he hasn't eaten or drank anything in days. His hands curl up atop his knees. They're bonier than usual. His glasses are nowhere to be found, and he's got a thick beard enveloping the lower half of his face.