Achromatic

Chapter Twenty One

(nsfw warning)

Even though Murdoc had been living by himself for some time, each passing day was as unbearable and endless as they were before.

They always started in wee hours of the morning after a nightmare, continuous flashbacks, or just simply from another restless night of tossing and turning in his sheets. Every morning was different, yet his sickness cycle was the exact same; It started with a pounding headache at 4 A.M., followed by a hit of nausea, which lingers in Murdoc's throat as he runs to the bathroom and vomits in the toilet for an hour or more. After he tastes the stomach acid in his mouth, he washes it down with a cup of crummy water and starts a pot of coffee.

Just before sunup, Murdoc sits in his bed with coffee in hand and watches whatever happens to be on television. If there is nothing that interests him, he goes down to the motel's continental breakfast. That is, the breakfast is always nothing but some boxes of frozen waffles, an old toaster, a spoiled carton of milk, some Styrofoam plates and a box of plastic forks.

Once Murdoc has eaten a light breakfast, he steps outside of the motel to watch the sunrise and take his morning smoke. This particular motel room he had been renting was anything but luxurious, but it was as far away from London and from Wibbly Wobbly as he could be. Murdoc had no vehicle, no spare fare for taxis, or a mate to hitchhike with, but his privacy was his own and his alone.

Winter was approaching its final days and slowly transitioning into a very early spring. Even though there were patches of dirty snow on the ground and in the parking lot, small tufts of brown grass were starting to emerge from beneath. It was an in-between period where the air was unpleasantly cold, but grew humid with moisture. It was March, and Murdoc had left the flat just after January.

Or was it February? 

He didn't know. He couldn't bear to stand the thought of that night.

That night. That goddamn night with the pills. Drops of water falling from the motel's roof hit his hand, reminding him of the cold bath water he was nearly drowned in. Noodle's terrified pleas for help still rung in his ears.  Murdoc took another drag, just to get the thought out of his head.

Inhale. Exhale. 

Murdoc let out a huge, hacking cough and sputtered his cigarette smoke. He inhaled a sharp breath of fresh air, beating at his chest to loosen up his lungs. Once the coughing fit had stopped, he tried again.

Inhale. Exhale...

"I'm sick of motel food, Muds."

"What, you got another stomachache?"

"Yeah. 'S disgusting to be havin' the same motel food everyday. My meds are actin' up cuz of them."

Murdoc stood leaning over the edge of the motel banister, calmly smoking a cigarette. It was a damp, gloomy morning and it was the perfect setting for his mood. Murdoc hated early mornings, especially the ones where he was feeling ill himself.

The sight of 2D's pale face and droopy eyelids was enough to make Murdoc squemish. The singer lazily propped himself on the banister next to Murdoc massaging his temples and running his hand through his bed-ridden hair.

"You can always go back to bed," Murdoc said.

"Our room smells like cat piss," 2D groaned. "I need some fresh air."

"It won't do you good to stand out here."

"I'm fine," 2D pouted. Murdoc frowned as he shivered and rubbed at goosebumps forming along his neck. It was pathetic, how stubborn and childish 2D was acting, yet Murdoc found himself feeling sympathy towards him. Nothing but months of traveling, continental flights, hotels, motels and fast food was enough to make anyone ill to the point of exhaustion.