11.5 years ago
Sunshine Motor Inn
Eugene, Oregon
I’ve been here for hours. Since before the sun set. Parked, watching his door like a hawk; a pile of beer cans beside me on the passenger's seat.
I followed him all day. From the second he walked through the gates of the county jail, to the liquor store, to this shitty motel. So much for promising to never drink again.
Sebastian Davis-Alvarez. Gutter trash. Murderer. Free man.
With my final beer can empty, I crack the top on a bottle of whiskey, the cheapest I could find.
So much of this shit has passed through my body in the last six months it hardly has an affect anymore.
It doesn’t numb, doesn’t blur, doesn’t ease the tension or calm the way every muscle in my body is braced and waiting, vibrating with rage.
I haven’t spoken to my parents since before the trial.
Haven’t seen anyone I know other than Eden since walking out of the courtroom six months ago.
It’s easier to look at the bottom of an empty bottle than Anaise’s face.
She cares too much, but Eden’s an enabler.
He’s got his own pain to cover up with sex, drugs, and too much liquor.
But I don’t need him for this. Retribution is mine to carry alone.
There’s something ironic about a cheap motel set back from the highway by a row of crippled evergreens called the Sunshine Motor Inn. Not even the sign wants to be there; half of its neon letters sporadically flashing on, then back off again.
I remain focused in on room 117.
I can see the bastard moving behind the nicotine yellow curtains.
Six months behind bars and he ends up in another shit hole because prison doesn’t fix anything. Especially not men like him.
My phone lights up, vibrating in the cupholder for the tenth time in fifteen minutes. Eden, Eden, Anaise, then Eden again, like they think their little tag team can stop me from doing this.
Where are you?
If you don’t answer, I’m calling the cops.
Please Tek, he’s not worth it.
I swear to god, if you don’t text back I’ll wake your mother.
I thumb the screen off and turn the phone around.
I’ve waited long enough.
I’m ready to go in.
Ready to put an end to the pain that’s been eating me alive since I lost Miri and our future in the blink of an eye.
With my grip tight on the truck's door handle, I go over my plan one more time: knock, barge in, and don’t stop punching until there’s nothing left of him to recognize.
Simple.
The curtains of 117 jerk open just enough for him to look out.
The window slides open and he leans out, the glint of a cigarette in his mouth. He cups his hand and lights it, drawing the smoke in deep before letting it bellow out.
I want to wring his neck, but if I move now he’ll see me coming. So I take another swig of whiskey and wait inside the darkness of my truck until he flicks the butt away and opens the door.
Like the invincible bastard he believes himself to be, he strolls, bucket in hand, to the ice machine.
That’s my cue.
As soon as he walks behind the cover of the stairs, I’m out of my car.
Everything around me feels slow, and sticky in the moonlight.
The vibration has stopped.
I taste blood, but it’s only the memory of that night.
Adrenaline is already coursing through me when I round the brick stairs to find Alvarez hunched over, scooping ice and muttering slurred words to himself.
For a second, he looks up. Right at me.
There’s a flicker—he recognizes me, I know he does.
He half-stands, like he’s going to run. Then his lips move. “Wootek?”
He remembers my fucking name.
I say nothing.
I keep walking; three more steps.
He backs up, dropping the bucket.
He runs back to his room, and I let him.
My boot stops him from closing the door.
I force it open and he stumbles, shaking. He knows.
“I—it was an accident, man.”
The taste of blood is real now, and I smile, showing every tooth. “You don’t get to talk.”
There’s no time for second thoughts as I kick him square in the chest.
Bones crack as he falls back against the shitty brown table.
The whole room reeks of alcohol and cigarettes.
He cowers on the ground. “Please don’t. I—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
The sound of my knuckles meeting his cheek is all I need to hear.
Then the second punch, straight to the bridge of his nose, brings up a spray of blood.
He tries to talk again, but I shut him up a third time.
I dig my knee into his chest and drive another punch into his jaw.
I want to feel the bone break, I want to hear the snapping crack that means his face will never be the same.
There’s a flash—a memory; Miri’s smile, broad and crooked. Then a jarring flicker—the same face lifeless and stained red.
More anger rises in me, the adrenaline pumps faster, and I feel euphoric.
I grab the front of his shirt and throw him against the wall.
His head snaps back and he goes limp. His breath is a wet wheeze, but I don’t stop.
I’m in a trance.
I’m not in my body.
I can’t be held responsible.
Every emotion, every word, every hate filled thought I’ve been holding in pour out through my fists.
Then there’s a sound outside. The screeching of tires.
The door bursts open and a pair of arms wrap around my chest, pulling me back.
“Tek!” Eden’s voice. “That’s enough!”
I try to fight him off, but he’s stronger. Always has been. And I’m so far gone I barely feel his grip.
My fists still reach for Alvarez.
Eden drags me back, locking my arms. “You’re done, Tek. Let him go.”
I struggle against him. I want to keep going, but then I catch sight of myself in the room's cracked mirror—bleeding, eyes wild, shirt stuck to my skin with sweat and blood—and I look just like him. Crazed, and worthless, and clinging to life.
Like I’ve been slapped across the face, everything around comes back into focus.
Alvarez is in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Eden lets me go when he’s sure I won’t run.
The adrenaline is gone.
I slump against the wall.
There’s too much clarity.
I want to throw up.
“Christ,” Eden mutters, and grabs a towel from the bathroom. He throws it at me, then goes to check Alvarez’s pulse, holding two fingers to his throat.
Alvarez coughs, then moans. “He’s gonna kill me… He’s fucking crazy—”
“Shut it,” Eden barks down at him. “If I were you, I’d crawl to the nearest ER and tell them you fell down the stairs.” He wipes his own hands on his jeans. “Get up, Tek. We’re leaving.”