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Clck, clck, clck…
The sound of the rains pitter-patter drives him utterly insane. He groans softly, head aching. The vision ahead, a wet empty road, blurring and clearing. He just wants to be anywhere else, not even that dingy bar he shouldn’t have even gone to. This is reckless. The headlights flicker slightly. Something of a warm heat fills the air. He rolls the window down, reaching uncomfortably to wind the knob down, a sharp breeze hitting his face. He prefers it over the stuffy heating system by miles.
That deep, insatiable dissatisfaction crawls up his spine, gripping the back of his mind in a sharp grasp. He feels woozy, tingly, his fingertips numbing, as if swollen. He pulls over beside the thick wood to dry heave, sitting halfway out the open car door. Air hunger is a bitch.
Scott is a paranoid, nervous wreck. He can’t seem to catch his breath. He rubs his clammy palms down, up, over his rough denim clad thighs. That unshakable feeling seems to crowd all around him, a tight claustrophobic hug. His eyes dart around. Red, red, red, that’s all he sees. Red trees. Red road. Red moon. He’s losing his mind. Another thought crosses his mind, and passes. And another passes too. He’s spiraling. Stepping back into his car quickly, Scott slams and locks the door. His forehead resting on the steering wheel. His teeth grit. He can’t run forever. Scott continues to drive hysterically, talking to himself in his head endlessly. “Need to go.” Scott is going to hurl if he doesn’t find anywhere else to linger. The drivers seat is a sort of bondage. Stopping off at the nearest open store this late, he steps in, a ringing at the door and the buzzing of overhead lighting welcoming him. Some sort of vietnamese restaurant open in the late hours. His ogling pauses when he spots a male figure at the counter, ordering. Scott shakes his head. He clears his dry throat. He doesn’t recognize this man, and he sighs his relief. He shakes slightly. He cowers into himself, horrifyingly, facing away from the storefront windows. He hasn’t got a clue what he’s so afraid of, but he can’t seem to just shake it off like he can most other situations. Something about this is so, very, off. He rests his face into his criss-crossed elbows, leaning forward onto some dingy table at a booth seat near the front door. He rubs the toes of his shoes against the linoleum floor. He counts his breath.
Scott is giving up, slightly. He sort of wishes to jump from one bar to the next. Find a new place to linger in between small crowds, be on the move. Just for tonight. He always tells himself it’ll just be for this night. He’s at the entrance of some brick walled, neon light place before he can even gather his thoughts. Scott stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and hides behind the puffed out lapels. He squeezes himself between the standing patrons. He lingers in corners, fading with shadows, staying out from the light. He’s a backdrop if anything.
The chatter and whispering stops.
Scott sighs in relief, his shoulders resting and his body stilling.
he’s gotten away, it seems.
He almost feels fully sobered up.
Scott spends an hour, two hours, maybe three in that corner. He can’t stomach another drink, especially knowing how impulsive he was earlier. He needs a stable ride home. He walks out, the night now darker than black, his shoes crunching gravel as he fetches his jingling keys from his pocket. A broad hand grasps his wrist, his keys clanking. Scott wants to scream, but he can’t. That death grip on his spine and skin comes back. He’s cold. Looking up from his stiff cower, Scott freezes at the other man’s face.
“Whatcha doin’ all the way out here?” Logan’s voice is gruff, genuine, confused. He snuffs a cigarette out under his boot, grinded into the gravel. His hand is warm. His brows are furrowed. Scott is scared.
”I can’t get away from you.” He mutters, a weak response. His speech is still slightly slurred. His eyes are probably as wide as saucers, a deer in headlights expression. He feels utterly pinned. Logan scoffs and takes his car keys from him with little effort, knocking his head in a point to signal “get your ass in the passenger seat,” a point well taken from Scott. He waits in the silent car, the muffled sounds of walking telling him where Logan must be. He hears the sound of the trunk opening, the rummaging of items, and the slam of it closing. Scott’s face contorts in thought as he wonders how the hell Logan even got here, he didn’t see any other vehicles in the parking lot. The idea of him walking in the dead of night for possibly an hour just to get to some mediocre bar befuddles Scott. The drivers side door shuts, startling him out of his thoughts. The vents on the dashboard push cold air into his face, a pleasant contrast to his warm, clammy body. His shirt sticks to his underarms. Logan flicks the radio on mindlessly, passing a glance in Scott’s direction. Some distant, grainy, alternative song playing quietly. The gentle hum of the motor and passing street lights almost bring him to rest.
He couldn’t have run forever.