Page 101 of Kings Fear No One
We part ways outside our respective motel room doors. Ozzie steps into room 310 while I guide Teysha into 311.
You’ve been to one fleabag truck stop motel off the highway, you’ve been to them all. The place reeks of cigarettes, and the box AC unit in the window kicks out hot air instead of cold. There’re four channels available on the TV and dust and grime wherever you look.
Far from the best accommodations but good enough for a couple hours of rest.
I glance at the dusty clock radio perched on the nightstand.
It’ll be another five hours before sunrise. That should be decent time to recover.
“You alright?” I ask.
Teysha’s plodded a couple steps into the room, then collapsed on the closest piece of furniture. It just so happens to be the desk chair with a broken wheel at the bottom.
She shakes her head, her expression unreadable. Beads of sweat shine on her brown complexion as if she’s been running a few miles. Considering it’s seventy-five degrees out and she was on the back of my motorcycle, braving the wind, it doesn’t make sense.
…unless she’s sick.
All the pieces click together when they need to. Another second, and she’ll spew everywhere. I hook an arm around her waist and walk her into the bathroom.
Nobody likes throwing up.
Not the person throwing up. Not the other person standing by watching.
Damn sure not me.
But there’s no other option as we make it to the bathroom and Teysha rushes for the toilet. We get the lid up a split second before the toxic contents come sputtering out. The room fills with the thick sounds of retches and gags as she kneels beside the toilet and spits up what’s making her ill.
I’m no caretaker. I’m not the thoughtful kind of guy that’s cared for family or girlfriends while they were sick. Mostly because I’ve never been around when they have been. Nobody’s ever been sick with the flu and thought I was the person they wanted to look after them.
Why would they when I prefer to be far removed from most people?
I’m more of the loner type for a reason.
My nature emerges as I stand idly by and listen to the soundtrack of Teysha’s retching.
Her whole body quivers. She clings to the toilet bowl like it’s a lifeline, sweaty and tearful all at once.
Fuck.
Do something.
Unsure how I can even make a difference, I approach slowly and then kneel beside her. My hand comes to her back, feeling how her very spine vibrates. Whatever it is that’s got her this sick is bone deep. It’s got her spitting up her insides ’til nothing’s left but bile.
“Hey, it’s alright,” I say. “Just get it all out.”
“My… hair…” she croaks.
It takes me another half a second to get what she means. I cup her dark chocolate strands away from her face like my hands are a ponytail holder. She bows forward again to yak up more bile. Yellowish green liquid that makes my own stomach churn.
I shove aside any beginnings of nausea and focus on getting Teysha through the moment.
“Here,” I say, getting up to grab one of the motel’s complimentary little paper cups. I fill it with water from the sink and then bring it to her chapped lips. “Drink. Rinse. Seems you’ve got the worst of it out.”
“Th-tha…”
“Shhh, just drink.”
Another few minutes pass like this. With me kneeling beside her at the toilet as she comes down from the sickness. Then I ease her to her feet and mention the shower.
