* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Go on this cruise, it’ll make you use that brain of yours more than that stupid con-artist shit you call work.”“You are crazy. What in God’s name makes you think I’d want to subject myself to something like that? And anyway, just because people send me money for a chance to win a vacation they’ll never get does not make it a con — at the end of the day, it’s their choice.”
“Whatever, I got these tickets from a colleague of mine. I can’t use them, so why don’t you give one of your girlfriends a call and see if one of them will go with you?”
“Hey, I’m not doing that anymore. Besides, Susan’s probably still pissed and she’s the only one I want to go with me.”
“Fine, go by yourself then. All I’m saying is that maybe if you expose yourself to activities where you need an IQ higher than 90, maybe you will be motivated to use the brain God gave you for something more than scamming people.”
“Jan, I already told you, I can’t help it if people like to give me th–“
“Shut up, Xavier. Just take the tickets and consider what I’ve said, ok?” The hecklings of an older sister will always win out in the end. He had taken the tickets with Susan in mind.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And I didn’t even get laid — I think. He stops pacing and looks at Sandra again. Her corpse lays there, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, What a waste. He wants to resume counting and ignore the dead body, but there is a strange fascination in death and he finds himself saddened by the sight of her. He stares at her, thinking about everything and nothing all in the same moment. The sound of the ship’s horn signaling a new hour breaks him from his daze and his thoughts begin to change.Why do I even care? I barely know her. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He begins to justify his momentary lapse into emotion, It’s because I haven’t had my pill since yesterday, and no coffee this morning, and this hangover is killing me. I just need my pill, that’ll even me out and get me thinking clearly. His lack of caffeine and pharmaceuticals keeps his mind foggy and he begins thinking he will just go up to the bridge and inform the captain of the situation. Yeah, but letting the authorities deal with it means questions, lots and lots of questions. Only God knew how many questions Xavier couldn’t answer about last night, let alone deal with ones concerning his personal life. If I could just get to my pills! He thinks, anger beginning to overpower his uneasiness. He decides it’s time to leave Suite 288 in hopes that he can better gather his thoughts in his own room. Home-field advantage: a con’s best friend.
He stares out the peep hole of the waitress’s room, checking for possible witnesses to his departure. “1,2,3,4,5,6.” There is a maid in a green shirt pulling her cart next to 289. He watches through the door until he hears the maid’s vacuum, the corridor is empty save for the maid’s cart sitting outside her current assignment. He opens the door slightly and pokes his head out and checks the hall as if he were crossing the street: left, right, left again. He is about to step into the deserted hallway when it occurs to him that he hasn’t put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign to keep the maid out of the room.
He shuts the door quietly, turns around and focuses on the nightstand next to the bed. “What the fuck?” He walks to the short table and stares at its smooth wooden surface. “Where did it go?” He questions the small blue lamp sitting on the nightstand. He remembers seeing the sign on it the night before, but it isn’t there. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, trying to calm himself and tries to remember if he had seen the small plastic rectangle anywhere else in the room. “Fucking shit,” his words pushed out of his mouth in an exhale. “I know it was next to that damn lamp.” He begins searching the rest of the room, counting while he searches. He checks under the bed, in drawers, and in the bathroom, but it’s useless; the sign is gone and he is back at square one. His urgency to get to his medication and to take care of his headache begins to overshadow the paranoia he feels without Suite 288’s privacy sign.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Would you say you feel almost frantic at times?”“I guess so.”
“Do you find yourself then shifting moods and having overwhelming feelings of sadness for no reason at all?”
“Not really,” Xavier replies to the psychiatrist’s question. “Mostly, I just feel paranoid.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“I’m not sure really,” Xavier says, lying to the psychiatrist; he knows exactly why. His “business” keeps him on his toes, and he never knows when he’s going to have to pack up and switch hotels, or have to change telephone numbers or get new fake names. He’s dealt with some close calls in the past, and the thought of another frightens him enough to cause anxiety. “Maybe because I used to be bullied when I was in grade school?”
“I suppose that may be an issue that we could look at and explore deeper.” The psychiatrist says indifferently. “For now, I’m going to give you a medication called Serax to help you until our next appointment in a week. I want you to take one when you wake up and another just before dinner — no alcohol, Xavier — and let me know if it’s helping your anxiety at all.” He rips the prescription off of the script pad and hands it to Xavier. He takes the paper and notices the chicken scratch scrawled upon it and wonders how anybody could ever fill a prescription properly when faced with such hieroglyphics. They both stand and he shakes the doctor’s hand and leaves, confirming his next appointment with the receptionist on the way out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He begins his pacing again, this time from the dresser to the bed — his eyes constantly shifting in hopes of catching a glint of white plastic in some obscure corner of the room. He unconsciously resumes his counting while he paces, “1,2,3,4,5,6,” switching between mental images of the pill bottle sitting on his room’s nightstand and then to this room’s nightstand and its lack of a Do Not Disturb sign. His thoughts remain focused on both of the unattainable items for another few minutes while counting consistently under his breath. He begins to feel worn out by the monotony of his thoughts and decides to take a seat at the vanity next to the dresser. He slumps into the chair and stares at himself in the mirror. I look pretty good, considering. Even in his time of paranoia and frustration he is still able to keep his ego intact.He focuses more closely on his features: a five o’clock shadow, a slight puffiness under his reddened eyes and a head full of uncombed hair stare back at him, but he is still pleased with his overall appearance. He has managed to avoid looking at his hands since waking up, and shudders at the thought of his denial masking the truth of the previous night’s events. At first he is unable to bring his hands out of his lap and into view. As he starts to move his hands he stays focused on the mirror.
“1,2,3,4,5,6,” his nervous counting has become a constant background whisper and he is completely oblivious to it. He begins to bring his hands up and over the table, and unconsciously prolonging the truth he undoubtedly wants to avoid, brings his hands out wrists first. Slowly he moves his hands into his mirror-view and immediately takes in a sharp gasp when he sees the dried maroon stains on his right hand.
“No!” He is unable to believe that he is capable of this horrible deed and his shock is almost immediately transformed into anger. Fucking shit! Why can’t I ever catch a break? And I still don’t remember anything! He looks over at the corpse on the bed and it only escalates his frustration with the situation. Why does she have to look so much like goddamn Susan?
To learn more about the author, you can visit her site here.