Dunes ((Scömìche Short Story))

02

He writes the same three words over and over, unable to think of anything else. His skin feels warm, sticky, like he's standing under the hot sun and not sitting in his cramped, air-conditioned office. When Kirstin comes in to deliver a cup of coffee, she finds him with feet propped up on his desk, legs crossed at the ankle. His long fingers are pressed into the skin around his eyes, and there is sweat dripping down his temples.

"Scott? You okay?" she asks, cautiously moving into the room to place the coffee on his desk, all the while eyeing him with concern.

Scott doesn't move, except to massage his eyelids. He mutters something under his breath, but Kirstin doesn't quite catch it.

"Huh? Are you okay? Scott, you look sick. Do you need to go home?" She creeps forward, places a hand on his shoulder. He jolts, feet falling from the desk and eyes snapping open to face her, wide and wild. If Kirstin hadn't known Scott for years, she would have interpreted that look as pure insanity – pupils dilated and irises shocking blue, both so empty and full at the same time.

Scott mutters something under his breath, shies away from her touch, rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Sick? No, not sick..." he says, slightly louder.

Kirstin's brow furrows as she moves towards him again and gently presses the back of her hand against his forehead. He doesn't flinch away this time, but he begins to murmur incoherently under his breath. Kirstie feels heat radiating from him, pulsing and hot in the otherwise frigid building. "Scott? I think you have a fever. Do you want me to take you home?"

Scott barely hears her, his mind thudding and the office whirling and everything so, so, hot. And gritty. He dimly feels Kirstin pull him to his feet and across the room; she shares a dialogue with their boss and before he knows it he's sitting in the passenger seat of someone's car, a smooth male voice repeating assurances over and over.

He makes it into his apartment on his own. He barely remembers giving Jeremy a hazy thank-you, barely remembers locking his door and slogging down the hall to his bedroom.

Everything is so cloudy, and so, so warm.

The sun is glaring, hot, illuminating everything with a rich orange glow.

The heat is blistering.