Oh, dear lord.

It was almost impossible to breathe.

He sat on a bed, in a nameless, dingy motel room. He was alone, her scent had faded from the scarf months ago, and all he had left were memories of her voice and small, delicate fingers running through his unruly, thick hair.

For hundredth time he contemplated whether to call her or not.

For the hundredth time he dialed the number, and then cut the line before she had the time to answer.

Last time he had dared to sleep was two weeks ago. After he had demolished the room he was sleeping in, and nearly gutted the curious inhabitants from the next room, he promptly decided not to sleep anymore. Now he was cornered. It was quite impossible task to stay awake any longer. Two days ago he had nearly fallen asleep when he waited the clerk to punch in his groceries.

One, two, three…

He counted every tone. He got nearly to twenty before he hung up the phone.

Where was she after eleven PM?

In the middle of the school week?


He fiddled with the scarf, brushing his cheek with it, trying to call up her scent from his memory. He nearly panicked when he noticed he couldn’t remember it anymore. He dialed her number again. Phone rang. This time he let it ring, determined to wait until she answered. Seconds ticked by, turning to minutes. Finally, when he was about to hung up, somebody answered.

“Summers? What the fuck are you doing in her room?”
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