Motel Seven

Heat of Night

Dmitri opened his eyes to a dark room, in the dead of night. He was burning up, despite being on top of the covers. It felt as though he was inside the sun. Wasn't the desert supposed to be cold at night?

Popov twisted around on the bed, realizing he must've been hot for a while and not noticed, since the covers were wet with what he guessed to be sweat. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the beads of sweat hanging off his dark hair.

Dmitri rolled over onto his stomach, trying to remember if he had seen an A/C in the room earlier. That's when he felt something hard pressed up against his chest. The man was irritated still from everything before, and now became more irritated because it was hot and something was digging into his chest while he tried to sleep. He rolled over, just enough so that he could reach under his stomach and grab the object embedding itself in his shirt and skin. It made a soft jingle noise as he pulled it out from under him, surprising him a little.

Dmitri held it up in the very dim light, squinting in an attempt to see it, but overall failing to do so. He sighed softly, shifting once more. It was too late and he was too tired. The exhausted man sat up a little, then reached towards the direction he figured the light was in. His fingers combed through the still air, trying to find the lamp. Eventually, he turned it on and held the object up in the artificial light.

A pair of keys.

Oh.

Jesus.

Dmitri growled in frustration, then slammed the keys down on the night stand.

What idiot leaves his keys on his bed before sleeping?

He sighed and took his hand off the key, bringing it to rub his forehead. He noticed something wet on his hand as soon as he touched his skin.

It didn't have the consistency of sweat.

He slowly pulled his hand back from his head.

Red.

Wait, blood?

Dmitri felt himself pull up towards the headboard, as though the bed was full of spiders and he had just noticed.

He was bleeding..?!

Dmitri wiped his forehead, hard this time, trying to feel for the wound. But there wasn't anything.

He brought his hand back down to eye level, studying it, his face twisted with worry.

No... that wasn't blood.

It didn't have the consistency of blood, it was too thick.

Paint...?

Dmitri let his hand fall, then looked down at the sheets again, suddenly worried that this mystery paint just may have stained the sheets.

"I'm not paying..." He muttered to himself, studying the sheets. There didn't seem to be anything, though.

The Northerner sat in silence for a moment, trying to figure out his situation.

Paint... on his... forehead?

Dmitri threw his legs over, off the bed, then hesitantly started towards the bathroom. Maybe he ought to see just what was on his forehead, maybe try to wash it off...