The Passenger: Chapter Two (Revise)Mature

When I awoke the following day it was after noon. Christmas Eve. Only four hours of sleep after Johnny and I had finished off the rest of Tina. Upon waking I instantly knew that there was no one in bed with me, but I still felt his warmth on my skin. I still smelled the deep scent of his musk in the sheets. I looked around the disheveled motel room, full of empty beer cans and our ripped off clothes strewn about. But there was no Johnny. I shot up, my eyes still foggy and unfocused, and scanned the room over, thinking- praying- that maybe I’d missed him amongst the whole seven square yards that was our home.

“Babe?” There was no answer, and the bathroom door was wide open with the light off. For some reason, I felt a sick sensation in my gut that told me something was wrong. My thoughts raced and I hopped off the bed bare-assed onto the fraying maroon carpet and quickly slapped my skimpy Green Lantern briefs around my waist that had been thrown all the way over by the door. Nausea again clutched at my bowels, but this time the added kick of the headache that accompanied withdrawal nearly knocked me off my feet. I ran to the toilet to puke up the rest of my water.

He got busted. I panicked, my face still in the bowl, waiting for more to come up. He went out to get more shit and the cops picked him up. There was no denying the possibility. I tried to remain calm, but paranoia held my breath in its jaws. I rinsed my mouth out in the sink and tried to balance myself with one hand against the mirror. The world began to spin and I hastily made my way over to the nightstand on Johnny’s side of the bed. I pulled open the drawer and rummaged through its contents:

 A calculator.

Johnny was never all that good at math. I wasn’t that great at it either, but at least I graduated from high school.

A stack of cash in a rubber band that probably equaled close to five-hundred dollars.

That's just a rough estimate.

A dirty spoon.

Need that.

Scraps of paper with shitty hand-written numbers on them: “Scott- call me.”

No thanks.

 A bunch of pens.

A pink highlighter.

A Syringe.

Need that too.

An empty pack of gum.

 A Bible.

I’m going to assume that it belongs to the motel.

And finally…

The End

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