Burned

Chapter 7

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Alistair's POV

The drive from the airport to the hotel is about a half hour, and thankfully, Archie is silent through it. I don't think I could do with chatter right now - whether it be mindless or constructive. The scenery that surrounds us is amazing though: deep green trees are everywhere, rising tall and proud, perfectly contrasting deep red earth. When we get to the city centre where the hotel is, I'm almost stupefied. It's not the buildings that impress me; high rise buildings are a dime a dozen in major cities around the world. It's the way the buildings don't seem at odds with nature, the way steel and grey isn't the defining feature of the city. It lacks the distinct coldness you find in London: an inhumanity born of unnatural competition and the centrality of commerce. This city is different. It seems like man and God have cooperated to form this landscape.
We drive unto the hotel grounds to the front of the building, and are met by a smiling porter as soon as we get to the main building. His greeting is enthusiastic and warm, almost as if he doesn't hate his job, which is a welcome surprise.
"Welcome to Transcorp Hilton Hotel." The receptionist says with the same enthusiasm of the porter, as we approach the front desk - maybe it's a Nigerian thing.
"Hi. I have a booking under Whitfield." My words lack the warmth with which she greeted me, but I don't have it in me to feign any sort of positive emotion.
She nods, types something unto her keyboard, and then promptly gives me a key card for my suite, and hands a copy to Archie.
"We're not together", I say, deadpan, to which Archie scoffs as though hurt by my words.
"Can I have a room as close to him as possible" he then says. She smiles and goes back to her typing, before giving him another keycard.

We walk up to the escalator and take the short ride to our floor before heading to our rooms. As if knowing I need time alone, Archie says:
"You probably have some thinking to do. I'll see you in the morning."
With that, we go our separate ways and I'm left in the silence of my hotel room - or suite should I say. It's large and airy, the decor sleek and modern but impersonal, as is always the case in hotels. There's even a little kitchen, but I know if I tried to whip up anything in there, I'd probably burn the hotel down. I've never had to cook: there's always been staff, and if not, there's been delivery services. Once, Athena had visited me and noticed my sparse fridge, and empty pantry, and commented that it was grossly incompetent to not be able to cook basic things as an adult , to which I responded saying I was a man so it was fine. She'd given me a look, but held her tongue, and I'd laughed it off. But now, the comment seems to hold a lot more weight, reminding me that I am my father's son: arrogant to the point of oblivion to said arrogance. The familiar twinge of regret tightens my gut, but I steel myself against it. Wallowing in regret is pointless.

I quickly strip out of my shirt and pants and put on my gym wear: the key to stopping an overactive mind is to put your body in such a state that there's no energy left for mental gymnastics. Heading out of the suite, I find the hotel gym and get started on my workout. I hit the treadmill, and go till my legs feel like they're about to give out under me, then I head to the weight rack to grab plates for a bench press. I'm not counting reps or timing myself - this isn't about being fit, it's about forgetting - so I don't stop. I don't stop when I feel sweat pooling at my back and drenching the bench, I don't stop when my body begins to tell me it's time to tap out. I don't stop till my whole body is teetering on the edge, and I know my arms could give out and the weights crush me. Then I stop.

I make my way out the gym and back to my room, registering the concerned glances of strangers. I probably look a sight right now, but I couldn't care less what anyone thinks. Back in my room, I head for the state of the art shower, and let it rip. I'm hit with ice cold water from ten different angles. The immediate effect is jarring and my brain freezes along with it. All I can feel, all I can think is the cold. I scrub off quickly and hop out, my body still trembling slightly from the cold. A wave of exhaustion hits me as I dress, letting me know my efforts have been successful. As I walk towards the bed, I spot a whisky decanter on the mahogany desk, and very briefly, I'm tempted to take a sip. But only briefly. I want to be better for Thena. I want to be worthy. And that doesn't start with seeing her, but right here, right now, with the little things. So I get under the covers and turn off the lights, hoping to be enveloped in darkness and a dreamless sleep.