(no subject)
He looks down at his sneakers, studies the scuff marks on the white, rubber toes, reaches a hand down and tugs at either of the tongues. Unties, then ties, the laces again, just because. He likes it better when they feel snug on his feet, and they had loosened a little since the last time he retied his shoes about an hour ago.
Then he double-checks his luggage again. Looks to make sure the baggage tags on them have his name written clearly. He had lost a suitcase full of clothes back when he first moved to America two years ago. That made him a bit paranoid about losing them again. He still wonders where that luggage ended up. Was there an airline employee out there somewhere wearing his shirts and pants?
And then, finally, he sighs and looks around the hotel room for the umpteenth time. At the bland painting of the flowers hanging over the bed, the television that hadn't been turned on since he got here, the mini-fridge that has the bottle of water he was going to take on his flight with him.
His eyes fall on the painting above him again, looking over the watercolor roses, washed-out daisies and faded baby's breath. The overall image seemed to encapsulate what all of his visits with his parents are like whenever he comes here to LA to see them. Dull, bland and mostly for show. They still liked to try and pretend that they were a normal family. His parents did everything they could to seem like they still cared about and wanted to be around their remaining boy, even though he was the one who screamed at empty hallways, cost them a fortune in counseling that went nowhere, who got through the day with some of his more bizarre superstitions. The one who 'caused a scene', as they mildy put it, at his brother's funeral back in Spain, batting his hands at nothing, an eighteen-year old boy shrieking like a six-year old girl who just found a spider in her hair.
They had moved shortly after that, of course. For a variety of reasons. Father had a new job opportunity in the City of Angels, there were too many memories, both good and bad, in Barcelona, and the one that never gets said: the stares and whispers at the family that had that weird Salazar boy, as well as the older one that died in that awful accident, were getting to be too much. So off they went to America, land of the free, home of new beginnings. And as soon as Father is settled in his new business, what do they do with their surviving son? They shuttle him off to college, of course. At the other side of the country, in New York. Wonderful.
He didn't resent them for it; he just wondered why they could never admit that they jumped at the chance to have him as far away as possible while still being in the same country. Maybe they were ashamed of themselves, too polite and cowed to admit that they're also afraid and embarrassed of their son, eager to have him far away, in a setting where he's his own keeper now, that they no longer have to deal with the phone calls from schools saying that their child had another fit and barricaded himself in the janitor's closet again. No, he's an adult now, he has to handle these things on his own; not their responsibility anymore. And since he's in a place that's detached enough from where they're at, he's in no position to run to them either. This is all only emphasized that, even when visiting them, they insist he stay at a hotel instead of in their home.
Ah, familia.
He's pulled out of his thoughts, however, when, from his position of lying face-up on the bed, he sees dancing lights on the ceiling. Red-orange-white, red-orange-white, flashing through his partially opened window. He stares blankly at it for a long while, his face washed in the alternating colors. And then he sits up, slow and cautious, looking at the window with an air of dread.
A peek out the window while still hiding half behind the curtains, a single finger pulling it back enough for him to see, reveals what he was afraid of. An ambulance is parked in front of the hotel, back doors open like a waiting sepulcher, a stretcher with a sterile, blue shroud covering a human-shaped burden. He takes a sharp breath in between his teeth when he spies the latter object, letting the curtain fall closed again, then yanking it shut the rest of the way.
Father and Mother talked about it briefly, mentioning how there was some sort of virus going around with symptoms like the flu. He didn't know about it, he never watched the news. And he didn't hear much more on the subject when Mother had said something about there being one or two fatalities from it so far, causing the room to go awkwardly quiet. Then Father got up to fetch them some drinks while Mother cheerfully changed the subject to his studies.
He has to resist his first kneejerk reaction. That being getting on the phone here in his room, punching the button for the front desk and demanding if anyone has just died. But no, don't do that. He even stops in his pacing to sit on the bed, hands under his legs, staring at the phone until the temptation passes. Telling himself what a lunatic he'd sound like if he did that very thing.
Then he also has to think about what to do next. His flight isn't until fourteen more hours. Would he really prefer waiting out the last of his time here in LA in a busy, noisy place like that when he could rest here in his room? Well...another glance at the crack in the curtains, the red-orange-white lights still dancing through it, decides that for him.
He picks up the phone and dials a taxi service. He can't stay here anymore. Not after that.
Then he double-checks his luggage again. Looks to make sure the baggage tags on them have his name written clearly. He had lost a suitcase full of clothes back when he first moved to America two years ago. That made him a bit paranoid about losing them again. He still wonders where that luggage ended up. Was there an airline employee out there somewhere wearing his shirts and pants?
And then, finally, he sighs and looks around the hotel room for the umpteenth time. At the bland painting of the flowers hanging over the bed, the television that hadn't been turned on since he got here, the mini-fridge that has the bottle of water he was going to take on his flight with him.
His eyes fall on the painting above him again, looking over the watercolor roses, washed-out daisies and faded baby's breath. The overall image seemed to encapsulate what all of his visits with his parents are like whenever he comes here to LA to see them. Dull, bland and mostly for show. They still liked to try and pretend that they were a normal family. His parents did everything they could to seem like they still cared about and wanted to be around their remaining boy, even though he was the one who screamed at empty hallways, cost them a fortune in counseling that went nowhere, who got through the day with some of his more bizarre superstitions. The one who 'caused a scene', as they mildy put it, at his brother's funeral back in Spain, batting his hands at nothing, an eighteen-year old boy shrieking like a six-year old girl who just found a spider in her hair.
They had moved shortly after that, of course. For a variety of reasons. Father had a new job opportunity in the City of Angels, there were too many memories, both good and bad, in Barcelona, and the one that never gets said: the stares and whispers at the family that had that weird Salazar boy, as well as the older one that died in that awful accident, were getting to be too much. So off they went to America, land of the free, home of new beginnings. And as soon as Father is settled in his new business, what do they do with their surviving son? They shuttle him off to college, of course. At the other side of the country, in New York. Wonderful.
He didn't resent them for it; he just wondered why they could never admit that they jumped at the chance to have him as far away as possible while still being in the same country. Maybe they were ashamed of themselves, too polite and cowed to admit that they're also afraid and embarrassed of their son, eager to have him far away, in a setting where he's his own keeper now, that they no longer have to deal with the phone calls from schools saying that their child had another fit and barricaded himself in the janitor's closet again. No, he's an adult now, he has to handle these things on his own; not their responsibility anymore. And since he's in a place that's detached enough from where they're at, he's in no position to run to them either. This is all only emphasized that, even when visiting them, they insist he stay at a hotel instead of in their home.
Ah, familia.
He's pulled out of his thoughts, however, when, from his position of lying face-up on the bed, he sees dancing lights on the ceiling. Red-orange-white, red-orange-white, flashing through his partially opened window. He stares blankly at it for a long while, his face washed in the alternating colors. And then he sits up, slow and cautious, looking at the window with an air of dread.
A peek out the window while still hiding half behind the curtains, a single finger pulling it back enough for him to see, reveals what he was afraid of. An ambulance is parked in front of the hotel, back doors open like a waiting sepulcher, a stretcher with a sterile, blue shroud covering a human-shaped burden. He takes a sharp breath in between his teeth when he spies the latter object, letting the curtain fall closed again, then yanking it shut the rest of the way.
Father and Mother talked about it briefly, mentioning how there was some sort of virus going around with symptoms like the flu. He didn't know about it, he never watched the news. And he didn't hear much more on the subject when Mother had said something about there being one or two fatalities from it so far, causing the room to go awkwardly quiet. Then Father got up to fetch them some drinks while Mother cheerfully changed the subject to his studies.
He has to resist his first kneejerk reaction. That being getting on the phone here in his room, punching the button for the front desk and demanding if anyone has just died. But no, don't do that. He even stops in his pacing to sit on the bed, hands under his legs, staring at the phone until the temptation passes. Telling himself what a lunatic he'd sound like if he did that very thing.
Then he also has to think about what to do next. His flight isn't until fourteen more hours. Would he really prefer waiting out the last of his time here in LA in a busy, noisy place like that when he could rest here in his room? Well...another glance at the crack in the curtains, the red-orange-white lights still dancing through it, decides that for him.
He picks up the phone and dials a taxi service. He can't stay here anymore. Not after that.