Regidale sat on the white porcelain toilet in Pittsburgh’s International Airport. Well, actually he sat on about three layers of toilet paper that sat on a black plastic rim, the underside of which met the toilet in a few places. It was an uneven toilet experience, annoying, but not unexpected. Regi had been listening for everyone else to leave the bathroom. 2 guys at the urinals - gone. Guy blowing his nose three or four stalls down - gone. Guy actually talking on his phone that didn’t seem to be doing anything else - gone. And finally, his neighbor on the left who used the stall as a urinal - gone. Regi relaxed.
Someone full-on slapped a puddle in the stall to his right. Were they on their hands and knees? What were they slapping? Water? Piss? He hadn’t even realized that stall was occupied. He ran through the smells and sounds of the last few minutes. He knew how to track people. Most folks coughed and sniffed their way through a public restroom, constantly flushing for reasons of their own. Location communication was key, but not talking - never talking - unless you were some asshole on the phone. And yet he hadn’t even heard his neighbor on the right breathe.
Regi went full turtle. He opened his mouth, pacing his breath to avoid making sound. Holding still, he gradually twisted his neck until he was staring at the gray divider between him and this mystery fellow. He clenched, putting a full halt on his progress, but an uncomfortable shift down there let him know that this would only be a temporary fix.
If someone was on their hands and knees, slapping piss puddles in the stall next to his - they could see him. However, Regi didn’t risk bringing his feet up - it would be way too loud. So he dug his fingers into his thighs and held fast. Out of the bottom of his eyes he saw a viscous red liquid slowly oozing toward his right shoe.
Oh God, it was blood. It had to be blood. What had that slap been? People were always describing gunshots as firecrackers. Did they sound like wet slaps? When was the last time he had heard one? Years? Decades?
The puddle advanced, two tiles between it and his right white sneaker. Regi slowly pigeoned his toe, then pivoted and lifted his heel. Twisting it until it met his left shoe, where he planted his foot. Almost three tiles separated the creeping blood blob from him. This too was a temporary fix.
Was there a dead man next to him? A quiet dead man? He’d heard no shifting, slumping or sliding, so a perfectly positioned dead man? A dead man that hadn’t gurgled, cried out or shit himself? Didn’t people go to the bathroom when they died? How could a dead man be silent?
The gap was back to two tiles. The expanding blood puddle advanced. The wound spilling this blood must have been a broken dam. Regi pictured the blood bursting through a grievous wound. Chest? Neck? Head? Back of the head? Did the gunshot sound like a piss-slap firecracker because it was muffled? A silencer? Was this a murder?
Less than one tile, then the blood would be upon him. He could smell it and his dry tongue tasted its warmth and he gagged. Regi looked at the door in front of him. Closed. Locked. He was locked in.
As the blood reached him, breaking its rounded self along the cracks in his shoe, Regi sprang into action. Pants around his ankles he lunged for the lock and slid it open. Yanking the door open he shit a bit. No time to worry, he dove slid on the cold damp floor, skidding his naked self out of his stall. He stumbled to his feet, fumbling with his pants to pull them up.
Laughter pierced the silence. He screeched as he hopped toward the door.
“It’s only a prank, bro.”
What did that even mean? He shoved past a man laughing with a camera pointed at him. Regidale’s shriek became a wail as he burst from the men’s room into the busy airport.
“Bro?”
He went screaming into a crowd of travelers that had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Everyone scattered.
“BRO!?”
The End
Disclaimer:
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This post is a collaborative effort for Tiny's Reflections #1 Contest
