Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

90. DON'T LOOK BACK

The curtains of our bedroom must have been made of paper. They barely filtered the bright orange glow of the streetlight outside our window. I could even make out the dancing swarms of moths and mosquitos gathered at the top of the lamppost.

The mattress was hard, it was like sleeping on a plank, and I swore I could feel the head of a nail digging into my right butt cheek. My pillow was just a ball of rags stuffed into a sowed-up case, with a weird stain in the middle. The blanket was itchy, a faded, snot-green color, and it was way too thin.

Once my heart stopped racing, I felt too cold again, and I huddled against Juan, searching for a little comfort amidst this stiff bed.

It was hard to sleep, and honestly, I was too uneasy to close my eyes. But I knew we had a long day ahead of us, and I should try to rest while I still could.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of voices outside the room. I was cold and shivering, the bed was empty and Juan was gone.

At first, all I could hear were whispers, growing into a conversation with words I couldn't understand. Then it turned into a shout, a long war cry of a dozen men running up the corridor, shaking the ground, my whole body, and making the room's flimsy window rattle.

Black smoke, like a thick fog, spilled into the room, crawling under the gap beneath the door. It swirled at the seams around the window, poured in through the cracks in the ceiling and walls. The heavy gas hissed like a snake, and turned into a hundred slimy hands that pinned me down onto the bed.

The door crept open, and from the fog emerged a tall silhouette. I knew who it was, even though I couldn't make out his face. It was too broad to be Juan's. Too threatening to be a stranger. Too familiar to be anyone else than Pablo.

His heavy boots stomped over to me, slamming against the creaky wooden floors. Dry air escaped my lungs as he leaned over to kiss me. I lay frozen as he grabbed my hand where my ring would have been, and his finger traced a line across the light indent the tight band had left on my skin.

Without a word, he pulled out a knife, its blade stained with another's blood, and slowly rose it above my head.

I woke up, panting and sweating, jolting upright in my bed.

"What happened?" asked Juan.

"Nightmare," I breathed as I fell back onto my pillow, holding Juan's hand to make sure he was there. "I had a nightmare."

He gave me a faint smile that looked more like a pitiful pout, and stroked back a few soggy strands of hair that had stuck to my forehead.

"Hey, Sarah, did you know that you sleep with your eyes open?" he asked. "It's cute."

"How is that cute? That's horrible," I muttered. "Were you staring at me all night?"

Juan nodded and grimaced. "I couldn't sleep. This bed is super uncomfortable. It's probably full of bed bugs, too."

"Yeah. It's not the best."

"It's the worst, actually. The worst bed I've ever slept in," he started to rant. "You know, when I was a kid, I had a waterbed. It was pretty cool, back then. And then one day i got into my dad's office and spilled some coffee onto his computer and it broke down. So he shot my waterbed, to teach me a lesson, and I had to sleep on this wet, deflated sheet of plastic for a couple of nights. And even that was more comfortable than whatever this shit is."

I let out a snort. "Oh, you've never stayed at a Motel 6."

"Not yet, I guess," he replied, and his voice sounded defeated. "Ugh, I'm going to miss my bed."