Playing With Fire

Chapter Twenty-One

                                                        Recap

        This paralyses grows, like the roots of a tree, and I begin to panic when I realize I the only thing I can move now are my eyes. Even then, my lids begin to droop and I’m afraid to close them.

         It feels as if millions of bricks are placed on top of me, suffocating me as I at last give up the fight.

       Just as I’m about to close my eyes, a sharp jolt catches my attention. Through blurry vision, I can make out those eden green eyes and the thin, angry outline of bruised lips.

         Oh hell. 

        Travis Emmons. 

       “Faye, look at me.” Travis says gruffly, squeezing my face, “You can’t close your eyes.”

        Even in my state, I try to come up with something snarky, but I can’t. The words that come to the edge of my tongue slip out in a strange sound as my pounding head lolls to the side.

       “God dammit,” He groans again, his breath still heavy and labored, “You're an idiot.”       

                                            Chapter Twenty-One

            I can’t sleep.

         This heavy pounding in my head, throbbing as if nails are being hammered, beats faster than my heartbeat and louder than my rushing blood. I remember Travis taking me to his place—as I had gone into and out of consciousness on the ride home—but I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

         My eyes flow open as I hear murmurs for the millionth time. The white, glassy room penetrates my delicate pupils and causes a strange, discomforting sensation at the top of my temple. As I groan and place a hand to my forehead, I hear the murmurs again.

         Gently, I lift my head up, glancing past a white washed wall and into an openly lit area. A burning curiosity, despite my condition, urges my feet off the plush mattress and over to the slightly propped open door. I slip past it and take one slow, gradual steps.

          Silently, I glide along the surface of the wall, making minimal noise in an attempt to tune in on the soft mumbling. Peering across the corner, I spot none other than Travis with his back facing me. One hand is gripping a phone while the other is roughly grasping chunks of his hair.

          I frown and then will myself to ignore the gradually increasing throb pulsating throughout my skull. Yet, as I try to gain a good ear on his conversation, the blood rushing to my head and down prevents me from catching on.

          Instead, I hear small phrases, or tid bits of the conversation. It’s like trying to fit together a thousand piece jigsaw.

            Nearly impossible.

          I try to edge a little closer, jutting my knee as if that could help. Placing my clammy hands on the wall, I lean forward even more.

          His voice becomes clearer, sometimes coming and going, but I can easily detect the anger and bitter frustration in his tone. Each time he speaks, he snaps, shaking his head or throwing in a humorless chuckle. Then, for a time, he goes silent; however, by the way he exhales, his shoulders rising and sinking in a slow movement, I can tell he’s fuming.

          “I thought I told—“ upon some miracle, I begin to hear him clear as day, “—no. I—“ He pauses impatiently again, “—No, you listen. This is serious. When I say to get it done, I god damn mean to get it done.”