Author's website: http://www.catmoran.com/

Disclaimer: Turnbull belongs to the creators of 'due South'.

Author's Notes: Thank you to Bas and LJV for their invaluable comments and suggestions. But I snuck this last draft past them, so nothing in here is their fault.

Story Notes: This takes place in 1985, Turnbull's a senior at university. Pairing: Turnbull/m

Ren carefully turned his rented Ford into the parking lot of a modestly priced motel north of Manhattan. The sun was just setting on a chilly March day, and he'd been on the road since early that morning. The long drive had been necessary; there were many bars and clubs in Toronto similar to those he would find here, but in New York there was almost no chance he would be recognized. What would his parents think! Even if he expected to avoid politics himself, his family would never forgive him for causing a scandal.

He unpacked his single duffel in the drab little room; his hands trembled with the effort to control his excitement. He'd waited so many years for this, and now that he was here, eager anticipation nearly overwhelmed him. He placed each item on the dresser just so: leather gloves, a tight black muscle shirt, black leather pants and boots. And socks, of course, but he wouldn't wear undershorts tonight.

Only a few years ago these clothes would have looked preposterous on him. He'd been scrawny through secondary school and into college, never putting on enough weight to match his height. Now that his muscles had finally caught up, he was anxious to wear clothes that would show off the firm build he'd worked for so long.

He undressed, neatly folding his khakis and sweater and placing them in a dresser drawer. He carried his shaving kit, and the shampoo and soap that he'd brought with him to the bathroom. He showered and shaved precisely, as if he was following the steps of a complicated ritual. He dressed in his new clothes carefully, fighting his arousal as he pulled on the luxurious leather pants and silky shirt. Finally he went to stand in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the outside of the bathroom door. He squinted his eyes and examined his reflection from all angles before breaking into a salacious smile. Perfect.

He lifted one glove-encased hand and slid it under his shirt and across the hard curve of his chest. His hand stopped at one nipple and flicked the erect nub. Moving to the other he allowed his fingers to linger for a moment, before delivering a solid pinch. He gasped and bit his bottom lip as he felt his cock twitch emphatically.

Enthralled, he moved one hand to his groin, and gripped himself hard through the smooth leather. His other hand abandoned his nipples to drop to his waist, to assist in lowering the zipper that trapped his straining erection. As his penis leapt free he widened his stance, looked into the hot, heavy-lidded eyes of his mirror image, and began to stroke himself. The first caress of the silky smooth leather of his gloves over his straining flesh ignited his nerves, and took him too quickly to the edge. With a stubborn grimace he held back, as if daring his reflection to come first. The narcissistic competition continued for several strokes, then with a heavy groan he let go, each jerk of his hips spattering a few drops of ejaculate on the glass.

He stared idly at the glyph-like pattern on the mirror as he waited for his legs and spine to resolidify. He zippered back up and rechecked his reflection, then reached for a tissue to clean the glass. Tissue in hand he paused, stopped by an almost superstitious impulse. He couldn't successfully break the larger rules, if he was still under the control of the small rules. He deliberately stepped back from the mirror and dropped the still clean tissue into the trashcan. He walked away, leaving the mess slowly sliding down the glass.

An 'area information' sheet on the dresser yielded the number of a taxi service. He knew the fare from the suburbs into Manhattan and back would be astronomical, but it was risky to drive or walk after dark in an unfamiliar city.

He gave the cab driver the address of a club in Greenwich Village. As the cab moved into the city, Ren was amazed to see that traffic in Manhattan was a hopeless snarl, even at this late hour of the evening. As they crept past Central Park, he was surprised to see a trio of joggers on a path parallel to the road overtake and pass the cab.

Finally, the cab stopped in front of a short brick building. A small metal sign with the name of the club, 'The Back Door', was fastened to the metal railing of stairs that led to a basement door. Ren hoped that the driver couldn't see the blush that rose over his face, even as he berated himself for worrying about it. He paid the driver and got out.

He began to feel the deep pounding of a bass note from within the building as he approached the door. He stopped a moment at the bottom of the steps to settle his nerves, then squared his shoulders and pulled open the door. As he stepped into the vestibule on the other side, the faint bass thread he'd felt before was transformed into a throbbing pulse accompanying a barely audible melody line.

The small entry room was well lit by an overhead light; a large, well-muscled man wearing snug jeans and a plain white T-shirt stood next to another door on the other side of the room. "I.D." The man's words were abrupt and bored, with just the faintest hint of "hi, how're'ya, glad you're here to spend your money," to his voice.

Ren produced his driver's license. The man examined it and looked up. "Canada, huh?"

Ren wondered what the question was, and replied with a shrug, "that's correct."

The man nodded in approval and handed the card back to Ren. "The cover's ten dollars. U.S." Ren handed over the money. The man tucked it into his back pocket and nodded at the inner door.

Ren pulled the door open, slightly surprised at the weight of it, and stepped into the club. He stopped just inside the door, and stared at the throng of men crowding the room in front of him.

A huge bar of chrome and mirrors occupied one wall of the room. Much of it could be seen only intermittently through the crowd, although the bottles of liquor on the highest shelves were clearly visible. The opposite wall was dominated by an elevated stage lit by swirling, strobing lights. Most of the men on the stage were attractive; a few were less so. Many of them were wearing a minimal amount of clothing.

The large space between the bar and the stage was occupied by a swaying mass of men, many apparently moving in time to the music. Tall, short, rough, pretty: all of them sweating and smelling of arousal. Ren pushed into the crowd, hoping to reach the bar. He was suddenly very thirsty.

Approximately two dozen butt-pats and more than a few groin gropes later, all on the receiving end, Ren was blushing furiously as he reached a six-inch-wide open spot at the bar. The bartenders, of course, all seemed to be at the far end.

"Fun night!" A man sitting on the barstool next to Ren's elbow bellowed in his direction.

"Um. Yes, that it is." Ren tried to bellow at the same volume, and assumed he succeeded when his neighbor nodded. The man was attractive, in a fairly nondescript way, with thick brown hair and brown eyes. Unfortunately, Ren estimated that the man's halitosis could kill at forty paces. Ren turned to the other side, both to shield his nose from the assault and in hopes of spotting a nearby bartender. In doing so, he came eyeball to eyeball with the most brilliant blue eyes he'd ever seen.

Blue eyes leaned in the remaining three inches separating them and spoke directly into Ren's ear. "May I buy you a drink?" even as he asked he was waving to summon a bartender who had suddenly appeared in their vicinity.

Ren was surprised at the sudden offer but recovered quickly. "Ah. A Heineken would be great."

Blue eyes turned to the bartender. "Two Heinekens." The bartender nodded and turned away to fill their order. Ren thought the bartender must be an expert lip reader, at less than a foot away he could barely hear what Blue Eyes said. He also thought that he needed something more definitive to call the man than 'Blue Eyes'.

As if he'd read Ren's mind, Blue Eyes turned toward him and smiled. With the same intimate method he'd used before he said, "it's nice to meet a man of such... good taste. My name is Carl."

Ren turned his face to Carl's ear. "Thank you kindly for the drink, Carl. My name is R-Roy." Unsure as to why he was reluctant to tell Carl his name, Ren quickly substituted the first name that came to mind.

Carl leaned back a little and winked. He looked as if he was going to say something else, but just then the bartender returned. Carl turned away from Ren to accept the drinks from the man and hand him a few bills. He turned back and with a bright smile passed one bottle to Ren. Ren smiled back and took a long drink. A slight buzz hit him almost immediately, calming him.

They passed the time watching the crowd, occasionally exchanging smiles and snippets of information in the same intimate manner that Carl had introduced. Ren almost didn't notice when his empty bottle was exchanged for another. "Thank you! But I'm sure it was my turn to pay."

With a wink Carl replied, "you can pay me back later."

Ren reddened and nodded his agreement, vowing to himself to stop Carl next time. He really couldn't afford to buy the man more than two beers, and still pay for a cab back to his motel.

The constant swirl and grind of activity and the deep bass beat of the music gradually became disorienting and oddly hypnotic. Ren thought that some hours had passed when he focused on the drink he held, dimly interested to see that it was still nearly full. He was sure that he had been drinking steadily, although slowly, all evening; he concluded that it must be earlier than he'd thought.

Carl seemed to read his mind, or maybe he'd spoken out loud? For the next thing he said was, "It's not late at all. I have a room nearby, if you're interested."

Ren was vaguely disturbed at the idea, but he liked the idea of leaving the confusing, pulsing mob. Carl's place was sure to be quieter. He stepped off of the barstool that had appeared earlier and leaned against the bar, as his center of balance seemed to shift in odd directions. He gratefully accepted the steadying arm Carl extended, and allowed himself to be led through the crowd.

As they stepped outside, the cold night air revived him a bit. At the top of the stairs he stepped away from the other man and looked around. It seemed to take years to turn far enough to face Carl, and then suddenly he was there. "Where-" He cleared his throat and tried again. "Where did you say we were going?" He turned his head and saw that they were already seated in a cab. When had that happened? Recovering from the distraction, Ren wasn't sure if he'd asked his question out loud, and couldn't remember if Carl had answered. He tried again. "Where are we going?"

"My place. It's just a few blocks." Carl smiled, showing his teeth.

He was warm and lying on a scratchy-soft surface. He opened his eyes to a splash of bright yellow. He lifted his head, and saw that he was lying on a bedspread covered with garish orange and yellow flowers. He rolled over and sat up with a pained groan. Looking around, he saw that the bedspread was the best feature of the tiny room. A buzzing sound assaulted his ears and he looked for the source. Harsh florescent lights hung over a small white sink on the other side of the room. A hotel room?

A toilet flushed and he groaned again as the sound rippled along his nerves. Carl walked through the open door nearest the sink and looked at Ren. One corner of his mouth quirked up, then he turned to the sink. A moment later he turned back. "Drank more than you thought, Roy? Here, this'll clear your head in no time."

Carl walked to the bed, holding out a glass of water and a few tablets. Ren took them gratefully and swallowed, then handed the glass back. "Thanks. Um. Sorry. I don't generally--" He shrugged vaguely.

Carl chuckled. "Don't generally what? Don't generally drink, or don't generally pass out on your date?"

Ren's face reddened and he dropped back to the bed, hoping it would swallow him up.

"Don't sweat it, Roy. We've got all night." The smooth words twisted along Ren's spine. He dropped an arm over his eyes, and waited for the aspirin to calm the nervous twitching of his brain.

A distant chorus was demanding his attention. He couldn't make out exactly what they were saying; first they spoke too slowly, then too quickly. A word or two came through clearly--"more" "faster". Was the voice addressing him? More and faster of what? He wasn't doing anything, was he?

He realized that the muscles of his jaw were stretched and sore, and he was gagging on nearly every breath he took. He was sitting up, or at least leaning upright against something... He forced his eyes open a crack. Something was just in front of him, but he couldn't focus on it through the thick fog that had settled over everything. He had a vague notion that he should be worried, but he couldn't grasp any thought long enough to act on it.

Something viscous ran down his throat. He coughed and choked, struggling weakly to get away. But it was nothing more than a shred of animal instinct, easily stopped by the hands holding him firmly in place. Suddenly the obstruction in his mouth was removed along with the hands that were holding him. He fell forward, gagging and gasping for breath before once again drifting away.

He surfaced to a pleasant rocking/grinding/rubbing sensation against his ass, the feeling drifting in and out with his consciousness. It encompassed his mind, his existence beginning and ending with it. The sensation seemed to echo back and forth in time, always there and never there, advancing and retreating...

A faint tickle of discomfort crept in and grew. It hovered at the edge of his reality and threatened his pleasure. He was certain that somehow it would stop, if he could just remember what he was supposed to do...

A sudden bloom of bright pain ripped a fragment of his mind out of his daze and into the present. He struggled ineffectively for several moments as the pain intensified. Powered by a heady combination of rage and fear, he finally found the leverage to flip onto his back, throwing his attacker off and to the side. The man's head struck the corner of the cheap laminate nightstand and he lay stunned.

At a second flash of pain, caused by the sudden withdrawal of the man's penis, Ren snarled. He threw himself at the other man, swinging his fists furiously. His first blows went wild, and the man attempted to roll off the bed. The nightstand blocked his escape route, and Ren's aim improved. The man struggled under his enraged victim's weight, and finally turned his face into the bedding in a desperate attempt to protect any part of himself that he could. Ren continued to strike his attacker furiously on the man's head and back, unable to care how he caused damage, as long as he did.

Finally, gradually, Ren's fists slowed and then stopped. His attacker turned prey was no longer moving, except for a faint hitch in his breathing. Ren stared at him, attempting to think through the dense fog that still occupied his rational mind. As he stared, an idea began to form, prompted by the solid erection that had grown at each blow he'd successfully landed. An eye for an eye. Or in this case, and he nearly stifled a giddy giggle as he thought it, an ass for an ass.

He looked at Carl's ass with muzzy thoughtfulness. Bruises were raised and even a little blood showed on the man, but not many of Ren's blows had fallen to bruise the man's lower torso. His ass was still attractive, in a leaden sort of way. Ren roughly yanked at Carl's legs, pushing here and shoving there, until the man was spread facedown on the bed. Straddling the man's thighs, he gripped Carl's ass cheeks and spread them.

He sat back on the other man's calves, puzzled. The angle wasn't right, it wasn't the way he'd imagined it. A slight movement of the man's head prompted him to lean forward and swing a fist to the side of the man's skull. He settled back absently rubbing his knuckles, and his gaze fell on the bed pillows. One lay near the headboard, but the other was just next to his knee. A picture formed in his mind and he smiled.

Maneuvering the pillow under Carl's hips took some time. The man wasn't being helpful at all, just lying there. But once that was done, spreading the man's legs took no effort. Ren knelt between his attacker's legs, spread the man's cheeks and took careful aim.

After a dozen attempts, Ren lay panting sprawled across Carl's back. This business was more difficult than it looked, attempting to hold the other man's ass open while aiming his own cock required more hands than he had. His balance was too shaky to allow him to lean forward without bracing himself, and lying on the man took away any chance he had of seeing what he was doing. He grunted with frustration. As long as he was erect he would keep trying.

Countless attempts later, Ren lay frozen in place, his arms quivering. The head of his cock was in, in glorious heat and tight, but each push forward burned. Movement was at first accomplished by millimeters and centimeters, stopping to allow the heat/tight to override the discomfort. Halfway in his arms began to shake, threatening to buckle and drop him forward at any moment. Gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, he gave in to their demands. A brief cry of pain was wrenched from his throat, quietly echoed by a moan below him.

The moan gave him the encouragement that his erection needed. He pulled back just a bit with his hips, then snapped them forward. He received a pained whimper from the man below him as a reward, prompting him to repeat the action. Before long he was once again braced on trembling arms, thrusting vigorously into the other man. The movement had eased quickly, slickened up a bit, but it was still fantastically tight and hot. He continued for what seemed like hours, occasionally stopping to rest. He entertained himself during those breaks by biting his former attacker, leaving livid marks on the man's back and neck. Finally he felt the crest approaching. His rhythm stuttered as he attempted to continue to go deeper without withdrawing, stymied by his balls already pressed firmly into the crease of the other man's buttocks. Animal instinct finally won out over the indiscrete mix of fantasy and reality playing out in his head, reestablishing the beat as he reached the peak and crashed over, spurting his mark into his attacker.

Ren woke to the pounding of his head. The wailing of a siren and other traffic sounds were nearby. Because the frat house was surrounded by narrow, restricted-access roads, he was relatively certain that the noise meant he was not in his own bed. With a jaw-clenched grimace he squinted his eyes open and saw a stained yellow ceiling. Ignoring the various complaints of his body, he rolled to one side to get a better view. His stomach churned with the sudden movement, and he nearly toppled off the bed he lay on. Clothing and a garish bedspread were tangled together, obscuring most of the floor in his view.

As slowly as he could manage, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. It wasn't nearly slow enough. He closed his eyes and waited for his brain to stop rolling around in his skull. Realizing that there was pain in his body that the pain in his head didn't quite mask, he conceded to inertia and allowed himself to drop back flat on the bed.

As he did so, his head bumped into something warm. Remembering his lesson of a moment ago, he kept his eyes closed as he turned his face toward the warmth. Only when his brain had once again settled did he open his eyes to identify his bed partner. A hand lay immediately in front of his face. A somewhat ...masculine hand? Shifting his head ever so slightly, he identified the object he'd bumped into as a leg. Definitely male, no doubt whatsoever. He was certain that no woman could grow a crop of hair like that on her legs.

Curiosity barely overcoming pain, he maneuvered himself up onto one elbow, hoping to identify the owner of the leg. The person ("or body?" his brain unhelpfully suggested) lay face down, his (its) upper back covered in bruised, bloody marks.

Horror immediately overrode all sensation of pain. Ren leapt off the bed and backed away, the clutter on the floor tripping him and sending him sprawling. His first instinct was to leap up and bolt out the door that he'd landed against, but his brain just barely managed to override that impulse with the loud objection that he was nude. Momentarily halted, he stared at the body, praying that he wasn't imagining the faint movement that might mean the man was breathing.

With brief glances to the floor he located pants, shirt and boots, vaguely hoping they were his own, and pulled them on while still staring at the bed. With his boots only half-tied, he fumbled backward for the doorknob. Panic flared through him when the door remained shut. It took him an endless moment to realize that his progress was halted by three deadbolts, all of them easily unlocked from the inside. Within seconds he was through the door, leaving it open behind him.

Down the musty stairs and out the door, he looked around frantically. He was standing in a narrow walkway, just a few feet away from the crowd hurrying along the sidewalk in the chilly early morning light. Taxis sped past, all of them occupied. Although Ren was barely aware of any physical sensation, he began to shiver.

Following his brain's demand that he get away, he stepped out into the bewildering crowd and allowed himself to be pulled along. It took him down a flight of stairs, into a subway entrance. He saw the turnstiles approaching but couldn't see a way around them. His long legs barely allowed him to clamber over the turnstile, as he was pressed forward.

The flow of the crowd was disrupted when they reached the platform. In the roiling confusion he found himself pushed into a corner formed by the wall and a Coke machine. It was warmer underground, but the cool tile of the wall at his back leached the heat from his body. He crouched down, tucking his hands under his arms for warmth. His gloves would have provided some protection, but he'd left them behind.

Ren wasn't aware that he'd dozed off until a voice that seemed to be shouting into his ear woke him up. He opened his eyes and looked up into the face of a police officer. With some effort he stifled his panicked reaction. They couldn't know about the man in the bed this quickly, could they? Probably not, the officer only looked vaguely upset. "Ah. Excuse me, officer?"

"I said, get out of here. No loitering." The officer casually nudged him with a shiny black shoe.

Ren's legs were numb from the awkward position he'd slept in. He straightened with some difficulty, using the wall against his back as support. He started to walk away under the watchful eye of the law, then froze as he realized he had no idea where he was. He looked back at the officer. "Please, could you direct me to my motel?"

The officer's expression softened slightly as it shifted from annoyance to boredom. "You're a tourist? What's the address you're looking for?"

"It's in um-" Ren flushed, embarrassed. He dug into his pockets and produced his motel key on its clunky plastic tag, as the officer grew impatient. "-White Plains."

The officer nodded. "You can get a train out that way from Grand Central. I don't suppose you know how to get there?" Ren shook his head. The man snorted. "'Course not. Ok, see that map on the wall?" He pointed to a graffiti-covered map posted close by. "We're on that red line, there, about half-way down. Any train that comes in going that way," he pointed down one direction of the tracks in front of them, "will take you up to Times Square. Find a platform marked 7--that's the purple line over there--and that'll take you to Grand Central. Got it?"

Ren struggled to follow the high-speed directions given by the officer. "Red--purple--Grand Central?" The officer nodded impatiently. "Ah. Yes, thank you, Sir." Ren could feel the man's eyes on him, as he carefully made his way into the anonymous crowd lining the tracks.

Even as tired as he was, the subway trains were so snuggly packed that standing for both rides held no danger of falling to the floor. At Grand Central Station, he was relieved to see well-lit signs directing him to the ticket and information counters. Once again, he found that the knowledge that he was a tourist yielded a somewhat more helpful attitude from the people he spoke to.

Finally, Ren stepped onto a commuter train that he was promised would take him to White Plains. The train wasn't nearly as crowded as the subway had been, and he quickly found an empty seat. With considerable relief he allowed his legs to collapse and drop him to the upholstered haven.

He gasped in pained surprise and quickly stood. With a feeling of vague fear he gingerly settled his weight back onto the seat. The pain itched and scratched at his nerves; as the train lurched away from the platform he carefully shifted his weight to lean against the window. It was several minutes before the pain subsided enough for him to become aware of another sensation.

It wasn't pain; it tickled. Sort of like drops of sweat would feel, rolling across his skin. Except this was--inside.

Bile flew up in his throat as bits of memory suddenly slid together in his mind. He clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent it from escaping. He stayed that way for several kilometers, staring into his own mind. Was it just blood, he wondered? Or... With a muffled, hysterical chuckle he decided he should have stayed in the cold outside, numb and nerveless, instead of allowing himself to warm up, first on the tightly packed subway trains and now in the heated commuter train.

He gradually allowed the steady rumble of the train to mesmerize him into a seemingly calm state. As they emerged from the tunnels into the open he concentrated on the buildings flashing past. By the time the train reached White Plains, he felt disconnected from his earlier revulsion.

He stood outside the station and stared across the parking lot, watching with disinterest as a taxi dropped off a passenger. Despite the overcast sky, the air was a bit warmer than it had been when he first entered the subway and the faintly sharp chill was actually rather comfortable. He decided to walk to the motel. He was halfway through the parking lot before he realized that he didn't know where the motel was from the station. He stopped, puzzled for a moment as if not quite believing that he didn't know the way, then turned back to the station.

The young woman behind the ticket counter had shocking pink streaks in her hair, much brighter than the gum she was snapping. She continued to study the photos in her magazine as he approached and stood at her counter. "Excuse me?"

She looked up, her bored expression quickly transformed to a bright smile. She popped her gum again, this time with more vigor. "Something I can do for you?" she said directly to his chest.

"Yes. Could you perhaps--that is-um. Can you tell me how to get to the 'Sleep Inn'?"

She giggled, a rather grating sound, he thought. "I'll take you there myself, if you want to wait until I'm off work."

"Um, no. Thank you. If you could just give me directions?"

Her smile dimmed a few degrees. "Well, just tell the driver. He'll know how to get you there."

"The--driver?" In his confusion, he felt his earlier panic begin to swirl upward.

"You know, a taxi. There should be a couple out there." She nodded vaguely toward the entrance.

"Ah." He gave a faint smile of understanding. "I'd uh, rather walk."

She blinked at him. "Walk? In March? In that shirt? Isn't that kind of cold?"

Ren glanced down, suddenly unsure of what he was wearing. The fear was rising; he felt that he didn't have much longer before it would overwhelm him. "Well, I uh. I'm Canadian." He blurted it out, fighting against the illogical urge to dart out of the station.

"Oh! Well. Hang on a sec." She ducked below the counter, and Ren heard papers shifting and small objects being shoved about. She popped back into sight, her smile back in place and a map in her hand.

//Another map?// Ren thought. Maybe if he found enough maps, he'd find his way back to a time before this... whatever... happened. He stifled his musing as the young woman began to talk.

"Thought we had one of these around here. Ok-" She spread the map across the counter, and leaned over it, pointing. "We're right here, and all the hotels and stuff are over here, see?" She looked up at him and he nodded. "If you're walking, you can't take this road right here-" she traced a line with a long, pink glittered fingernail that nearly matched her hair, "-'cause it's a highway and they don't want people walking on it. So you'll need to take a left on this street here, 'til you get to Maple. Then another left and that'll take you down where the highway would've. Got it?"

Ren's panic receded as he focused on the path her glittered fingernail traced, taking refuge in the simple reality represented by the map. He studied the legend in the corner of the map, and looked back at the indicated route. It didn't look far at all, maybe two k. He wondered briefly why anyone would consider a taxi for that distance, in this lovely weather. "Yes, thank you."

The remaining chill in the air was just enough to return him to a pleasantly numb state before he reached the motel. By then he was reluctant to enter his room and break the spell. He was relieved to discover that the room's heating unit had been left on a setting too low to truly warm the space. He turned it off completely, then hurriedly stripped out of his clothes. He headed for the shower, but came to an abrupt stop when confronted by his image on the cum-streaked mirror.

He stared, frozen in place at first, then touched a harshly shaking hand to his chest, as if to verify that it was really his image he was looking at. A low moan escaped his throat. Abruptly he jerked his head down to look at his cock directly, at the dead-red substance that stained and flaked from it.

Keeping his head down he shouldered the door open and lunged for the toilet, letting a stream of burning bile escape his heaving body. He continued to heave and gag for long minutes. He began to collapse, and gave a brief thought to falling headfirst into the toilet bowl, to see if it was possible to drown. But he allowed himself to fall sideways to the tile floor.

He had no idea how long he lay there. The light from the vanity area gave him a good view of the base of the toilet. He watched with vague interest, as its solid edges seemed to alternately advance and retreat and dim and brighten in front of his eyes. He was dimly aware of the sound of knocking at a neighboring door, but the sound drifted through him with no real effect.

Some time later he heard the knocking at the door of his room. Again it had no effect, but a moment later he heard the doorknob rattling. Shock rushed through his body, alerting him to danger but also keeping him frozen in place. He hadn't drawn the security bolt, and he heard the door swing open. At the soft cry of "housekeeping", his muscles unlocked. Fear still rippled along his spine and he could only think to keep the intruder out. With a sense of desperation he reached a hand up to the toilet handle and flushed. Over the sound of rushing water he barely heard, "sorry, I come back later" and the door closed.

He dropped his arm and forced himself to his feet. Stumbling, he rushed to the door and opened it just far enough to slip the "do not disturb" sign outside, then he closed it and slid the bolt. Looking for anything else he could do to secure the room, he grabbed the single straight-backed chair that occupied the room, and pulled it to the door. He puzzled at the realization that it didn't fit snuggly under the knob as it always did in the movies, but he left it against the door anyway.

He stumbled back to the bathroom, careful not to look at himself or the mirror as he did so. He left the bathroom door standing open and stepped into the tub. After a short internal debate he turned the shower on the coldest setting, and began to scrub.

When his soap was reduced to a sliver too small to grasp, he grabbed the small bottle of shampoo. When even that was gone, he allowed himself to shut off the water and step out of the shower. Ignoring the bath towels, he left a trail of water from the tub to the vanity.

While brushing his teeth, he caught sight of the mirror on the bathroom door. Its reflection of the blank wall beyond the vanity was marred by the streaks that he'd left on its surface only a dozen hours before. He shuddered. What had he been thinking? His mother would be ashamed of him, not cleaning up after himself. He hurriedly spat out the toothpaste and dampened a washcloth. With careful consideration, he began to scrub the mirror. His inadequate cleaning supplies left their own streaks on the mirror, so for a long while he couldn't tell if he was cleaning it or just moving the mess around. Finally, he decided that it looked clean. He carefully folded the washcloth and draped it on the edge of the tub, then shut out the light and closed the bathroom door.

He stripped the blanket and bedspread from the bed, and climbed under the sheet. He hugged a pillow to himself like a child with a teddy bear, and stared at nothing until exhaustion pulled him into sleep.

The End

End Expectations by Catmoran: catmoran@catmoran.com

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