Jackson is his name. He tells me this as we pull into a hotel parking lot. I probably would object, but Im lost in my own nightmare. He gets us a room and I stagger to the bathroom like a zombie. The blood on my clothes is seeping through, sticking to me, and I can’t wait to get it off. I notice my wound as I slide my pants down. It’s not too deep, and somehow the bleeding has stopped. I fall into the shower and watch as red fills below. The hot water eventually fades forcing me to reach up and stop the shower. I lay in the tub, cold and alone. I can hear the television. They are talking about us. My mind sees the clerk.
His face will follow my line of vision for the rest of my life.
The TV stops. Jackson knocks on the door. I want to say wait, stop, don’t enter, but none of it comes out. As Jackson enters I just look up at him, pleading for any kind of warmth, any drug to wash away what the shower can’t.