Airel - Aaron Patterson [74]
Then the movie reel took a really bad turn. There was vomit everywhere. It was mine. I saw myself as I retched time after time, right onto my captor’s fancy carpets, losing whatever I had in my stomach from the Cheesecake Factory with surreal violence. Fast forward, and I was dry heaving as the killer picked me up and carried me to my room.
I looked at Michael in confusion. I smelled bile. Oh. That might explain the dreams.
Michael lowered his head, his blond hair matted and sticking to his face from sleepless nights. His shoulders began to shake as he turned to go. I had somehow hurt him. It must be hard for him, too…
“Michael, I’m sick or something. Eight days?” I pulled him close and hugged him. He was warm and at once I was aware of how I must look and smell.
I tried to pull away but Michael held me firm. He was…crying. His back was tight and I could hear his muffled sobs. “Michael, what’s wrong?”
“I…Uh.” He pulled back but wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry, Airel.” Turning, he rushed out of the room.
“Michael!”
Chapter XII
I was confused and hurt. Not for myself, but for Michael. He was in pain and something was on his mind but I didn’t know what to do. Should I leave him be, give him space? Relationships were hard. Most of the time I didn’t even know what I wanted, let alone what Michael did. I decided to let him be and clean up. I was covered with eight days of sweat and I could feel my clothes sticking to my body.
Bathing can be glorious. I hosed off in a scalding shower while filling the tub, then climbed in for a good soak. There were candles and matches, which I used, as well as several clay pots of very yummy smelling botanicals. I was guessing that everything in the bathroom, as well as everything in the bedroom, had not been touched by any kind of manufacturing process at all. There were no electronics of any kind that I could remember either, come to think of it. Not even a clock. Well, not an electronic one anyway.
Everything was rough, but well-made. The tile, the fixtures—all of it bore the stamp of authenticity in a way that no house in town could touch. Even the water felt different. Maybe he had built a massive boiler somewhere in the house that heated the water to be used for bathing. Or maybe it was coming from a natural hot spring. Whatever it was, it wasn’t running out any time soon, for which I was grateful. I was starting to feel like myself again.
When I thought about the hallway, my mind flashed back to my parents, my friends, my whole life as I had known it. I sat there in the tub for a pretty long time, just crying. It had been at least eight days—that’s what Michael had said—and my parents probably thought I was dead.
Oh, God! I couldn’t imagine how they must feel by now. But I had to resolve myself to the fact that, as of right now, there was absolutely nothing I could do about getting back home. I might be able to set a few things in motion…
I had to get my mind back out of desperation mode. I looked at the candles that illuminated the enormous bathroom, watching them burn. Blackness rested against the outside of the lead glass windows, beyond which was at least a thousand foot drop to the valley floor—I had peeked out earlier. Hmm.
I didn’t know how, but literally every piece of clothing I owned somehow showed up here, in the closet in my room. Cell. Wait, is the door still busted off the hinges? If the door was gone, I was basically free. I dragged myself from the tub and back into the shower, resolving to check on that. First, I wanted—needed—to be