He stumbled down the dark hall—hands to the wall. Thankfully the bathroom was only a few paces from his room. The rain is what woke him. Tiny torpedoes were what they were. Each drop an explosion against the shingles of the roof, awnings, gutters, until he could deny it no longer. Dazed and a bit winded by the urgent need to piss he cursed the last bottle of wine he’d finished alone.

Dylan’s hand reached inside the cool darkness, fingers splayed and brushed over the icy surface of the tiles along the wall before flipping the light switch. Light exploded before his eyes in a searing white flash. He squinted against the florescent globe at the center of the ceiling. The strain caused the headache nagging at the back of his eyes to send a piercing blade of pain through his skull. Immediately he reached aside and turned off the light.

Dylan welcomed the absence of light. “Motherfucker,” he cursed, his feet shuffled him forward. He needed coffee, a pitcher full. Then maybe another hour of sleep before he considered turning over. He stopped at the sink, dropped his hands on the enamel. Dylan pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. It helped soothe the pressure needling his temples.

Dylan inhaled. The clean stench of pine and disinfectant had a strange hint of spicy cloves of cinnamon that flooded his nostrils. He lifted his head, stretched his eyes searching for the source. A potpourri pot at the top of the commode. The intake made bile rise in his throat. Was he sick? His tongue felt dry, hairy, in his mouth. His throat burned when he swallowed. He pushed back from the sink and noticed the dark patches under his eyes. He was definitely not at his best.

Side stepping the sink he tossed up the lid to the toilet seat. The bleached water in the bowl hit him full force. It was as if his nose was a magnet for odor. He nearly leaned in and puked. Dylan swallowed again; it felt like glass going down. He needed his bed. Reaching in the front of his boxers for his dick he bought it out, limp and lifeless in his hand. Dylan’s eyes closed. Darkness, rain, bed, darkrainbed, darkrainbed: the words repeated in his head, like a lighthouse beacon signaling for his relief. That’s what he needed—all three. The tightness in his pelvis eased, but not his stomach. Still it churned, and bubbled.

Seconds counted up to minutes. Opening his eyes he shook his dick then folded it back in the opening of his boxers. Dylan stumbled through the motions, his joints felt wooden. But he flushed, washed his hands then shuffled out of the bathroom with the aid of the wall or whatever was nearest. He made it to his room, collapsed on his mattress were the sheets had lifted from the edges and gathered in a tangle mess to the center of the bed. If he had opened his eyes he would have noticed the flashing red numbers on his alarm clock. It was 6:20.