The sound of cars in the distance. I lie on a mattress. The most jagged in Hell. Head over the side face down in waste paper basket. The waste paper basket metallic rusting contains an astonishing volume of vomit to which I contribute munificently. Vomit scorches inside the nostrils coats throat tongue lips chin.
Sucking back spittle and flashes of light retching everything stabs any attempt at movement immediately punished with more of the same bile poison stomach muscles shriek.
Splash of tequila no place time name only spasms spewing and this soul-destroying bed of nails.
It goes on forever.
Icy bone fingers on bare back “¿Estás muerto, mamí?” voice raspy deep but feminine like Stevie Nicks. Who the fuck is in bed with me?
Splash of tequila snot bubbles drool choke up question “¿Dónde estámos? – Where are we?” but throat fails emitting hardly a sound.
The air is too dry light too white room too pink even for a motel room. I am not in Houston. I am in a desert place. Splash of tequila. How long have I been here?
From somewhere above me again: “¡Estás aquí! Conmigo, mamí. ¡Por supuesto!”
Angry buzz red-eyed hairy blue bottle fly big as a chihuahua lands on lip of waste paper basket proceeds consuming vomit and joined by several of its friends. I jerk up back from fear into arms of unseen bed companion brush of skins splash of tequila scent of vaginal juices. “¿Qué pasa?”
The scene pink and turquoise breaks frame. Clicks at edges. Before me on the bed stands an impossible tower purple red translucent tube contraption. Maybe a sex toy maybe a bong and most probably both or neither. Pray God it has not been inside me.
My bed compañera is revealed as a taut brown bag of longbones of indeterminate age dark nipples nose like an old Aztec god. She has a recent trepanation scar right in the center of her forehead.
Reaches. Kisses my shoulder with air of familiarity.
A thought perhaps a memory of what brought me here belches up-up-upwards almost in view and I want to drown it in a splash of tequila but instead take inventory of what I know:
v Who am I? I am Katy. (Certainty level 63%.)
v Where am I? Not where I usually am. Location unclear but a western desert motel seems possible. (Certainty level 49%.)
v When am I? Later than 2003… 2004. I remember buying a Nick Cave album once and it was 2010. This is 2010 or it is later. (Certainty level 7%.)
v What am I? Question not operative. Splash of tequila. (Certainty level nihl.)
v Why am I? To not see-think-remember something. To keep something faraway. (Certainty level 100%.)
Sick ghosts flapping in my peripherals splash of tequila and I smother myself into the arms of Señorita Longbones. The way I see it: To undo all my efforts at forgetting by just going and remembering now would be a crime punishable by death firing squad blindfold and cigarette. Gotta be a reason I came here, ¿Verdad?
Sharp electric shock from my kidneys splash of tequila dribble and fumbling towards fadetoblack I begin the long crawl across the potholed surface of the mattress to the waste paper basket again.
A woman sits in corner shadows watching observing jotting down notes. I pretend I don’t see her. I am not asking any questions.