The street feels too bright. Too loud. Too open. Every passing car makes my shoulders tense. Every voice makes me flinch. I keep walking anyway. My ribs hurt with every step. My head feels thick, like someone stuffed cotton behind my eyes.
I don't know how long I walk. Ten minutes. Twenty. Maybe more. My legs feel weak. My hands will not stop shaking. I keep expecting to hear footsteps behind me or a car door slam or Donald's voice calling my name.
Nothing comes.
I turn down a side street. Then another. The buildings get older. The lights get dimmer. A neon sign flickers above a squat brick building. "Motel." Half the letters are dead. Good enough.
The lobby smells like cigarettes and bleach. The guy behind the counter looks half-asleep. He does not look up when I walk in.
"I need a room," I say.
He glances at me. His eyes linger on the bruises, the dried blood, the way I am holding my ribs. He does not ask what happened. He just holds out a hand.
"Cash."
I pat my pockets. Empty. Of course.
My throat tightens. "Can I borrow a pen and some paper?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You gonna write me an IOU?"
"Something like that."
He sighs and pulls a cheap pen and a small notepad sheet from under the counter, slides them over.
I take them, then pause. "What's the date?"
He squints at me. "You serious?"
"Yeah."
He scratches his cheek. "Second of January. Twenty-thirteen."
The number sits heavy in my head. I do not know how long I was out. A day. Maybe a little more. Does not matter. I nod and sit at a small table in the corner.
My hand shakes as I press the pen to the paper. I steady my breathing, focus on the words, and write:
There is a 100 percent chance on 2 January 2013 of a wallet containing two hundred and forty dollars appearing in my right jacket pocket.
I lift the pen.
I slip my hand into my right jacket pocket.
The wallet is there.
Simple. Worn. Feels like it has always been part of the jacket.
I open it just enough to see the bills. Enough to know it worked. Enough to know I can pay for tonight and maybe a few more if I am careful.
I set the wallet on the counter.
The clerk barely looks at it. "Room 12," he says, handing me a key.
I take it and walk down the hallway. The carpet is stained. The lights flicker. The room smells like old smoke and cheap cleaner.
I close the door behind me.
The lock clicks.
My legs give out.
I hit the floor hard. My ribs scream. My breath catches. My vision blurs. I press my hands to my face and try to breathe, but the air comes in shallow and wrong. My chest feels tight. My throat burns.
I curl forward, forehead against the carpet. Tears come before I can stop them. Hot. Messy. Ugly. I bite down on a sound that still forces its way out of me. My shoulders shake. Every sob grinds against my ribs.
I see Donald's face. The gun. The way the barrel felt against my chest. The cards on the table. The way his eyes looked at me like I was something he could rearrange, break apart, erase.
I remember holding it together in that room because there was no other choice. No space to be scared. No room for anything except survival.
All of it pours in now.
The fear. The panic. The helplessness. The knowledge that I should be dead, that I only made it out because I bent the world to keep myself breathing.
I choke on it.
My hands claw at the carpet. My face is wet. My throat hurts. My ribs throb with every ragged breath. I try to slow down, to steady myself, but the sobs come in waves. I ride them because I cannot do anything else.
Time blurs. Minutes, maybe more.
Eventually the sounds I make soften. My breathing evens out. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The paint is peeling. The light flickers. The AC rattles in the wall.
I feel empty and heavy at the same time.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. My fingers still tremble. My chest still feels tight, but the pressure is different now. Less like it is going to crush me. More like a weight I can at least name.
I push myself up slowly until I am sitting with my back against the bed frame. My ribs protest. My head swims. I breathe through it.
The room is quiet.
For the first time since that casino, since the car, since the chair and the gun and Donald's eyes, there is no one watching.
Just me.