A Short Story

Who else might turn up in a hotel like this one? And what would their story be? Stories in under 500 words. 

Taylor felt sorry for the man. He’d turned up at 9.45 looking haggard, worn and like he’d been through hell and back. He’d joked that his motel wasn’t an emergency room – maybe he ought to try a mile down the road. Obviously not the right thing to say. Not a joker. He mumbled something intelligible. Taylor put the key on the counter. There was only one reason people came here. Need. It wasn’t a bad place, but it wasn’t the sort of place you had to have ID. “Down the hall, third left.” The guy didn’t look up. Taylor sighed and got off his stool. “Follow me.” There was no point in trying to attempt conversation. The man followed like a child. Taylor wasn’t interested – the man would be gone by tomorrow. He showed him along the dark corridor and into his room. “Bed. Bath. £45 cash.” The man took a leather, monogrammed wallet out of his suit pocket and gave him the cash. Money, or lack of it, was obviously not the reason he was here.

He held the key out to him. “Out by 10.” His glimpse into the man’s life through his wallet made him take a second look. Leather soled shoes, grey pinstripe 3 piece suit, no tie, clean shaven, neat hair. Not the average punter. He backed out of the room but the man didn’t notice. Just stood there staring at his over-polished black leather shoes. The door shut between them and Taylor immediately felt the air change. He paused against the door frame. The man oozed with despair and it was contaminating everything. He needed some fresh air. He stomped back downstairs and went out the back for a fag.

***

Julian registered the door closing with a jerk. He’d registered taking 50 quid out of his wallet for this shit hole of a room. He’d registered the neon sign advertising rooms in its fluorescent flashing blue. He could have gone to his apartment or a decent hotel at least but huge warning signs had flashed up in his head. He needed to distance himself. He couldn’t go where anyone would find him. This had seemed like the perfect option. He’d walked as far as his leather shoes could take him. The tie had been the first thing to go. He’d put it in his pocket. It might come in handy later. The décor lived up to the neon sign’s promise. It was a vacant room. No character. No colour. That was what he was looking for. He’d stepped away from the most colourful day of his life for this? The answer was a resounding yes. He was free. 

Advertisements

My take on Virginia Woolf’s suicide

Virginia's garden

Virginia’s garden – Rodmell

She sat down to write. Nothing new there. It was a daily ritual. She never knew what would come out of her pen or typewriter these days. But this, she knew exactly what to say. Everything was clear. She knew what to do. Write the letter and leave it. Walk to the river. Find something heavy to weigh herself down just in case panic made her want to survive. Walk into the river. Drown. Simple. Everything resolved in one easy move. No more voices. No more headaches. No more noise. Just quiet death. He would understand. He always understood. He looked at her with such compassion. She wished she could feel better. For him.

***

Her coat was wrapped around her ankles and it clung to them like a persistent child. She felt the cold penetrating her shoes, her stockings, her calves and up her legs. It was like icy tentacles shooting through her veins. Still she stepped deeper. There was no turning back this time. As she stepped in to the fast flowing muddy water her coat released its grip on her ankles and floated out like a balloon. The stones in her pockets felt like lead weights dragging her body deeper into the river. She was cold to her chest now and had to keep breathing steadily to stay fixed on her goal. Gravity stepped in and was pulling her down. Her plan was working. The tide felt strong but each muddy step felt like an iron anchor sinking into the mud bottom. Each step grew harder as she tried to pick her feet up and take another step deeper.

The shock of water on her face made her falter. It slapped some sense of reality back for one second and as she opened her mouth the water rushed in. Her head was pulled backwards as the river pulled at her hair. The cold ran through her insides too now. It wouldn’t be long.

***

The armchair sagged under the weight of years. It lay waiting. The window opened over the lush garden while the door shut it out. Spring blossoms nodded around the window behind the glass. A light drizzle spattered on the window. It was damp and cold inside. The electric fire glowed fluorescent against the tiled fireplace. It barely penetrated into the room. The books shivered on their book case and were huddled together for warmth. Paintings hung limply on the dark, damp walls.

He’d taken to being in her rooms, waiting for news. He knew she was gone but the cold comfort from her room cheered him.

***

He knew she was dead. He’d known on the first day. It was now the fifth day. He waited. For the telephone call, or the knock at the door. Everyday he walked to the river tracing the steps he thought she had taken.

They had found her walking stick abandoned on the bank. He roamed the canal path for another sign but there was none. He knew he wouldn’t find anything. She had planned this. It hadn’t been a clumsy mistake when she’d come home soaked to the skin the other day. She had tried then, but something had gone wrong. This time she had been better prepared. It had been definite. She didn’t plan to return. Her letter had told him as much. He didn’t need to take the letter out – he had memorised it in the first few moments of reading it.

***

It was three weeks before they found her. She had been abused by the tide and by the elements. The local boys had mistaken her for floating driftwood and thrown stones at her lifeless corpse.

I fully admit that I am not a Virginia Woolf scholar. This is entirely made up from my basic knowledge of her death.