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Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
Страница: 25 из 138What is that smell?
Swinging both feet out of bed, I take a second to wipe my eyes dry. I feel miserable and drained. Not even the sight of my beautiful new bracelet curled up on the nightstand can raise my spirits.
It isn’t as if I’ve never had a recurring dream before. I’ve had plenty – only they’re the ones you read and hear about, the anxiety dreams apparently everyone shares, like being naked in public or showing up unprepared for the big college exam.
This one is different.
This dream seems to be all mine, nobody else’s. The Fálcon Hotel. Why there of all places? Four dead people. Who were they and how did they die?
I check my alarm clock. Like yesterday, it’s a few minutes before six. I can sleep a little more if I want to. Yeah, right. As if I really want to invite the dream to come back.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I immediately make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Ouch. This could be worse than yesterday. Staring back at me could easily be the “before” picture of a face-lift.
Hey, at least I’ve got hot water today.
With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is.
Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky.
The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites.
Before I know it – and just as I hoped – it’s the only thing I hear between my ears.
That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news.
I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel.
But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry.
The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday.
He said it happened this morning.
Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And -
“Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?”
Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn – and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops.
“You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert.
Swinging both feet out of bed, I take a second to wipe my eyes dry. I feel miserable and drained. Not even the sight of my beautiful new bracelet curled up on the nightstand can raise my spirits.
It isn’t as if I’ve never had a recurring dream before. I’ve had plenty – only they’re the ones you read and hear about, the anxiety dreams apparently everyone shares, like being naked in public or showing up unprepared for the big college exam.
This one is different.
This dream seems to be all mine, nobody else’s. The Fálcon Hotel. Why there of all places? Four dead people. Who were they and how did they die?
I check my alarm clock. Like yesterday, it’s a few minutes before six. I can sleep a little more if I want to. Yeah, right. As if I really want to invite the dream to come back.
Dragging myself to the bathroom, I immediately make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Ouch. This could be worse than yesterday. Staring back at me could easily be the “before” picture of a face-lift.
Hey, at least I’ve got hot water today.
With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is.
Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky.
The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites.
Before I know it – and just as I hoped – it’s the only thing I hear between my ears.
That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news.
I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel.
But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry.
The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday.
He said it happened this morning.
Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And -
“Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?”
Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn – and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops.
“You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert.