I wake with a start, immediately smelling bleach from the night before. I can feel my head pounded presumably from the lingering fumes. I stretch my hand out to the empty space beside me, and my memory floods back. I had come back to my own room. It wasn't really that I didn't want to be with Oliver, because I always do, but he had detected something wrong within the first ten minutes of being around me so I had to be away from him before I had a meltdown because of some blood.
With a heavy sigh, I sit upright letting the sun paint over my skin and reflect in my eyes. My dad is still, chest rising graciously, and I notice the glass beside his bed. It's filled with something as strong as the smell of his breath. They must have had quite the party last night.
Thinking about it, I must have over reacted. I didn't have to be sick, no, not at all. Most likely I had scratched my throat, or maybe there's just a bit of cheek or gum that bled, and I haven't noticed. That must be it.
I glare up at my reflection across from the bed. I've felt worse, that's for sure, but I can't recall I time I've looked as bad as I do. Just above my pale jagged image, the clock reads nine in the morning. For whatever reason, it feels like I've only slept for an hour at the most. I try to move my legs slowly, careful not to go faster than my brain can handle, and feel my toes sink into the hotel carpet. The air is still and quiet, but my head is pounding. I just need water.
A deep breath helps me focus for a split second; long enough to stand up, then I hover to the bathroom. I look even worse in the bathroom mirror.
"Why are there so many damn mirrors in this hotel room?" I grumble, my voice being soft and nearly impossible to hear.
My eyes are darker than they were yesterday, and it seems like my bones have been wrapped in papier-mâché. I frown and breathe in deeply to watch my skin move over them. I've always been skinny as hell, but this was different. A burst of anger surges through me and all I want to do is break the reflection. I barely have the energy so instead I clutch the side of the counter, turning my hands nearly as white as the granite. I think about, for a moment, calling Oliver and just ignoring what my body is telling me, but before I even begin to decide a sound comes from the other room.
First, it sounds like two women singing. Then a click, and it suddenly turns to a man with a deep voice reading off a slab of news. I poke my head out of the door and see my father clicking the television remote lazily with his glasses on the tip of his nose. He's massaging his temple vigorously.
"Good morning," he says with a yawn. I don't answer immediately, as the man's voice which I realized was a news anchor in a burly suit and tie, was now paired by a woman who's expression had turned quite detrimental. She looked as if she were about to announce her own death.
"Good morning, America," the woman on the TV says. She sighs heavily before continuing, "Today comes with great shock to America. I wish I didn't have to inform you all of this, but Tom Fogerty, beloved musician, former guitarist of Credence Clearwater Revival, passed away this morning. There are not any details surrounding his death at this time however, it is known that Fogerty had a history of HIV. This shock comes shortly after the death of Paul Giovanni just only a few months ago, who passed from similar circumstances."
A feeling of immense sickness washed over me. I couldn't move for the life of me, and to make matters worse, I could feel the hot stare of my father's gaze. It felt like my skin was melding to the wall, and I feared that I would be stuck there forever.
"Elio," he says with a tone that seemed far more frightening than comforting, "I know what you're thinking."
I turn to look at him, unconvinced that he had any idea as to what I was thinking, but regardless, I entertained the idea. Say he did know what I was thinking. Would he be any help to me? Not particularly. No one would be able to help me at that point. Not even Oliver.
