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It was happening again. The uneasiness deep within his gut as he sank into the limbo between consciousness and sleep. Every thought that entered his head became more vivid, viscous. He couldn’t tell if they were intrusive or caused by something supernatural. But he didn’t want to open his eyes. Every time he got close to considering it, that thing would appear in his head again. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, right in front of him. It wasn’t breathing against him - it didn’t have a mouth - nor was it staring him down like a vulture to roadkill. It was just there. Waiting. Jay could feel it’s pressure on his face, his neck, his back, his head.
This had been happening for a little over two years, and the circles under his eyes had grown darker. The pale peach of his skin had changed to an even paler yellow - but he wasn’t sick. Jay was sure of that. He wasn’t sick, no matter how hard he coughed into the sink and saw what came up. He wasn’t sick, no matter how Tim looked at him when he thought Jay wasn’t aware of it. It was just exhaustion. Exhaustion from years of running and thinking that every time he turned his back something would be behind him.
When Tim informed him of the pills that he had shared, Jay’s initial reaction was one of annoyance. He could feel an uncharacteristic irritation tingle from the base of his spine all the way up to the back of his head. That should have been a warning sign, really. “Don’t give me any more of your fucking pills, Tim.” The words flowed out of his mouth too easily. He almost liked it. Jay could see the sting in Tim’s eyes. Was he insinuating that he didn’t feel crazy enough to take the pills? Maybe. Would he say that just to make it hurt Tim a little more? No. The thought made him -- the true Jay -- want to get up and leave the hotel room. Tim would probably be better off without him anyway.
His blood was boiling, bubbling in such a deeply animalistic way that Jay didn’t feel like Jay anymore. Tim had it all that time. The square in his pocket that Jay knew was the tape. And Tim’s audacity, Tim’s nerve to lie to him made him want to squeeze his hands a little harder around his neck. He didn’t want to kill him, per se. He wanted to hurt him. Jay got out of there before he could let his thoughts take him anywhere else. Even after all that, he still wouldn’t admit that something was wrong. He was fine. Everything was fine.
Jay had brought the knife for what reason, exactly? Because he was scared? Just in case? All he could recall was a voice in his head telling him to do it. Maybe he should have left it at home. The knife, though small, felt incredibly weighted inside his palm. The blade glinted attractively in the midday October sunshine. Jay felt compelled to clutch it tighter. Tim was prepared -- he always had a knack for knowing when something wasn’t quite right. It was almost like he had to live with that feeling his entire life. Jay’s ziptie plan backfired, and he found himself screaming like an animal at Tim as he left him tied up on his floor. Was this for his own good? Who knows what he’d do next time he saw him.
Little did Jay know that he would never see him again. Or, at least, he would never talk to him again. Jay only heard his voice when he was hunched over on the cold floor as hot, thick blood seeped from the gunshot wound on his side. It was their argument, playing on loop like some cruel song stuck in his head. He couldn’t stop it. He could only listen until that, too, was drowned out by static.
It
was here for him. Jay didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed that it was over. The last thing he saw was
it
stood there, and if it had a mouth it’d probably be grinning at it’s victory. One long arm, warped and stretched, reached out to grab him and that was it. Nothing.
Finally.