Hell Hath No Fury

Daryl

Daryl woke up with a thundering headache, the kind you get after drinking for three days straight then letting the hangover kick in. Groaning, he rolled on his side, smacking dry lips together and wondering what the fuck he might have eaten that could account for the horrid taste in his mouth.

Cracking his bleary eyes open, he blinked a few times, the acrid smell of smoke in the air stinging his bloodshot peepers. There was something else in the air too, mixed in amidst the smoke, a sickly sweet undertone of something decaying.

The rectangular room was dimly lit by light filtering in under the door at the end of the short hall on one corner. It was warm, uncomfortably so, making him sweat all over. With considerable effort, he pushed himself upright into a seated position, throwing the thin perspiration dampened sheet aside and swinging his legs over the side. Naked? Where were his clothes? He shook his head, squinting about in the gloom, trying to figure out where the hell he was. A bed, a nightstand, a dresser, fine details lost in the shadows, but nothing seemed familiar. A motel room maybe? He chuckled, he never understood the difference between a hotel and a motel.

Scratching his head, he was trying to remember something, anything. He felt like he was in a fugue state, like waking from a dream, wisps of recollection dissipating like fog in the morning sun.

Knuckling his eyes, he wiped the sleep from them, salty sweat trickling down his forehead as he stood up on wobbly legs. His stomach hurt, spasming in a series of cramps that dropped him to one knee. Where the hell did that come from? He frowned. And why was it so goddamn hot? Was there no AC? Maybe that was the difference, cheap ass motels had no air conditioning.

Using the bed as support, he pushed himself back up and ambled across the carpeted floor to the corner near the dresser where there was a floor lamp and a broad set of curtains on the wall. Fumbling in the dark, he found the switch and clicked it, bathing the room in weak yellow light.

The soft glow afforded him the opportunity to evaluate the room. All of the furniture looked like cheap fake wood knock off crap. The carpet was mostly faded red with a lighter step pattern, patches stained darker in a few places. There was a second door in the short hall, this one leading into a bathroom, paint peeling off the trim around the door. There were a couple of dried water stains in the off white ceiling. The closed curtains were a slightly darker red than the carpet.

Moving over to the bathroom, he clicked on the wall switch, the fluorescent light flickering and humming before spilling stark white light over the room. Both sink and tub looked old, stained lime green where years of dripping has fallen from the spigot, knobby taps crusted with corrosion.

He looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink, edges milked over. “Fuck, I look like shit,” he mumbled, turning his head from side to side. Normally, he spent a tremendous amount of time and effort making sure he looked good, especially for the ladies, but today there was some stubble on his usually clean shaven youthful face, his normally coiffed brown hair was unkempt and his eyes were certainly bloodshot.

Breathing into his hand, he sniffed it to check his breath, making a sour face and turning away from the odor. “Gah, zombie breath” he said.

Twisting the knob to the left of the faucet in the hope of bringing hot water, he was greeted with a loud groaning and banging of pipes from within the walls as a thin stream of rust colored fluid dribbled weakly out of the end of the spigot.

“Ugh,” he noised, wrinkling his nose at the smell accompanying the liquid drooling from the faucet, “That possesses the fragrant aroma of rancid baby shit,” he said dryly, rearing back and quickly shutting off the water tap. He tested the cold water tap and was rewarded with a weak stream of an off colored clear liquid resembling dark urine or weak tea and equally as unpleasant smelling as the material that had come from the other tap.

“Nope,” he said, shutting off the tap and stepping over to the toilet. He started urinating into a stained porcelain bowl devoid of water. Finishing, he shook off and reached for the handle to flush, but the handle just clicked. Lifting the lid off the reservoir tank at the back of the toilet, it was dry.

“Good thing I didn’t need to drop a deuce,” he chuckled, noticing now there was neither toilet paper nor towels or linens of any kind in the bathroom.

Walking back into the other room, he ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to try and comb it and bring some order to his do.

“Where the fuck are my clothes?” he said aloud, scanning the room and not seeing them anywhere, noticing also that there was no phone or TV. Muttering, he moved over to the dresser, pulling open the drawers but finding all of them empty.

He snorted. Walking to the curtains, he pulled them apart, surprised to find plywood covering the entirety of the window behind them instead of a glass. “What the hell?” he asked aloud, putting his hands on the wooden panel to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

What the hell kind of motel doesn’t have a TV, phone, or even a bloody window? There wasn’t even the ever present gift from the Gideons in any of the drawers. He’d spent enough time in motel rooms to know they always came with a bible.

Peeling the sheet away from the generic beige colored utility blanket, he wrapped it around his nakedness like a toga.

Walking over to the door, painted a garish green color, he took the brass colored knob in his right hand. The moment his fingers touched the warm metal, a woman’s face flashed through his mind, like a jolt of electricity, causing him to take a step backward. He knew her. Why the hell couldn’t he remember her name? Wait. Fucking Hayley, that was her name. She was mad and pointing a gun at him.