Dry Weather ~Doc Holliday FanFiction~

Chapter 10

I ran fast and hard. I didn’t care that my dress was dragging in the mud, I didn’t care that Milt was calling me back, I didn’t care that I fell on my way out of The Oriental and ate shit. I didn’t care. Not much was worth caring about anymore, not when you’ve practically planned your own funeral. Premature death did not sound particularly fun, but it appealed to me more than confronting him.

Of course… Of course I had to go and get myself drunk when he’s there.

I knew who Doc Holliday was and the reputation he carried. I knew that he was a dentist and because of this everyone referred to him as ‘Doc’, despite the fact that his given name was John. It did help distinguish him from the other ten thousand Johns in Tombstone, which I was glad of. However, his reputation extended further than that. He was a renowned gunslinger and a good one at that. He had an unquenchable appetite for gambling, drinking, and the general nightlife. Normally, this wouldn’t have been very concerning to me, seeing as there were too many gunslingers in Tombstone to count with the exact same tastes, but I knew he was especially lethal because of his relations. Doc Holliday was commonly talked about- yes, that was true- but rarely was he the subject of interest without the Earp brothers also being involved. He was their partner and close friend, in fact, often they traversed the streets together in an intimidating fashion, which did not go unnoticed by the public. Doc Holliday in himself was already mighty, but with the Earps by his side, they might as well have owned the town.

All of this, and I had set them upon me. I cost him a small fortune that evening. Drinks on Doc Holliday. What a joke.

I nodded to the desk clerk as I hurried past him. The Grand Hotel was wide awake, even at this hour, and the lobby housed a few scattered couples throwing themselves at each other. I paid no attention to them and clumsily ran up the stairs to my designated room. I slammed the door and locked it with shaky hands. As I sat myself onto the bed, I let out a huge breath. And then a sigh. And then a whimper. My head pounded with adrenaline and anxiety.

I could have told Milt it was a mistake. I could have paid for it myself. Why didn’t I? It would’ve been fine.

The answer was simple. I wanted him to pay. It was more of a subconscious decision. If I wasn’t so dead drunk and perhaps thought about it more, I wouldn’t have done such a plain rude thing. But it happened and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. A part of me resented him and I was sorry for it (maybe it was his smug face). The other part of me didn’t want to be completely poor. Declaring bankruptcy wasn’t on my to-do list. It was too late and I’d have to deal with it.

The monumental mess I created provoked my mind to spiral downwards into extraverted panic. I breathed intensely and watched the oil lamp on my nightstand become blurry and unclear. I couldn’t focus my thoughts properly and struggled to move my limbs. I was scared, so frightened that he would come for me. I knew Holliday wasn’t to be reckoned with. I thought about what he could do, would he hurt me? Kill me? Challenge me to a duel? I remembered a book I read many years ago, the protagonist had been captured by his enemies and was subjected to various types of horrific torture. I envisioned myself as the protagonist, pleading for my life. I regretted the choices I had made, I hated the evil thoughts that plagued my conscience. It was my fault and I knew it.
There wasn’t much time, I pondered, until he sought out vengeance. I prayed (to no avail) that I wouldn’t be subjected to a cruel ‘vendetta expedition’ led by Doc Holliday himself and that his will would prove merciful upon my poor being. Of course not, after all my naivety had probably rendered him immeasurably penniless. With tears in my eyes and a countenance filled with guilt, I wept quietly on my bed, followed by the occasional hiccup. I had settled on the hardwood floor with my head and hands draped across the mattress; a position, no doubt, that displayed my anguish and patheticness upon anyone lucky enough to see.