Catalyst

I lay on my side, soaked to the shirt in beads of perspiration. Directly in front of me was a shade, pulled most of the way down over the length of a dust streaked window. The sun beat against the canvas cloth with all of its might, casting a sickly yellow hue across the room. Through the small section of window that remained uncovered, a palm frond was visible. It was motionless and brown, having steadily withered in the breezeless tropical heat. Much like myself during these hours of introspective restlessness. At this temperature, internal organs start to tremor: The simmering prelude to a full scale boil.
The bed I lay upon had once seen its fair share of use. After keying into the room, I hadn’t trusted the look of the sheets and stripped the mattress clean using a pair of rubber gloves I had in my case. The discarded bedding lay in the corner, where it had sat in a heap for the past three days. I rolled onto my back and lit a cigarette. A blue lizard with suction cup feet trundled quickly across the ceiling.
Outside, I heard the metallic sound of the gate opening, followed by the high tension spring slamming it shut. Besides the passing of rough old jalopies on the pockmarked road outside, this was the only sound that could be heard. A clamorous two piece symphony: The continuous clatter of the gate accompanied by the insectile droning of laboring engines. But now, in the middle of this miserable afternoon, a sudden variation: Footsteps at the top of the stairs, steadily proceeding down the concrete corridor littered with cigarette butts and discarded condoms. The footsteps drew nearer, and finally paused at the door. I waited for a knock, but was given no indication that the visitor intended on seeing me. Slowly, I eased off the bed, careful not to upset the most vocal of springs towards the center of the mattress. My bare feet touched down onto the tiles and I quietly snuck over to the door. I brought my face close enough to look through the spyhole. Immediately, my right iris burned with a lightning bolt of fresh pain. I stumbled backwards, blinded by a bright blue afterglow seemingly etched into my retinas.
“The stealthiest of serpents make sleeping alone a habit. They cannot be that easily snuck up upon,” came a voice from behind the door. The words sounded inhuman, as if they were collectively spoken from a swarm of yellow jackets enraged at the disturbance of their hive. The view through the spyhole hadn’t been the dark blue waters of Nimitz bay. I had seen an inferno of flames; autumnal oranges and searing hot white flaring up against a backdrop of cascading lava. I stood a long distance back from the door, leaning on the chest of drawers for balance. Still blinded, I could hear the sound of a manila envelope being slid underneath the door. As I began to regain my vision, the gate slammed shut. The sound of traffic below resumed as if Nimitz Bay had just found its equilibrium.