onsdag 28 maj 2008

Knock knock

The scratches beneath 505 were deep. Edward stared at them. His weight floated around as his feet shifted on the gelatinous hallway carpet and gave him the sense of being woozily carried along on some tedious voyage out in the middle of a hot ocean, pulled by a mundane current in endless circles around the equator. He wondered if he could have dug those scratches in the solid, dark mahogany. With his fingernails, or with his teeth, or his room key. He wondered if she had made any gouges after he locked her inside of room 505. If she had the strength left. The tall dark receptionist with the big happy face had a trace of concern in his eyes as he called out a greeting in a horrible caricature of sincerity. His name tag said Stewart. Stewart had seemed on the verge of accosting Edward further. But that was probably because of the big purplish blue bruise covering most of the left side of Edward's face and his torn shirt collar. Stewart couldn't have been aware of what happened. The hotel was a happy little microcosm of shoeboxes for him. He didn't worry about what the shoes were doing once he closed the lid. Not for his sorry wages. “Fucking savages in this town, my man. What's an honest fella to do?” Edward had said with a shrug of his shoulders as he walked by. Florescent lights made 4:17 AM repulsively awake as Edward's eyes continued to probe the scratches. He swivelled his head slightly to the left and leaned in. There might have been the sound of shuffling leaking through the scratches. The sound of something limp and broken being dragged painstakingly across a carpet. There might have been the sound of the air conditioner grumbling in quietly dejected tones. Edward knew better than to believe anything was true. Every utterance she ever made had been a lie. What else could he have done. Edward jerked back when a door slammed somewhere overhead. But his eyes stayed fixed. Those scratches reminded him of things. He didn't know whether to fill them in or dig them deeper. He could see her in the ruined state he left her in. His imagination dragged her into that familiar pose, lying on her side with her hands between her thighs. And that smile. A smile that had made him crumble. That made him give it all away. But it had become leering and grotesque. Edward thought he had done the thing finished, but halfway to the next city he realized he had to go back. He had gone in this deep. He had to fix it up right, or break it all the way. It had always been like that. He caught the odor of stale beer which triggered the memory of a scene in a similar depth of night from when he was seventeen, standing in the hallway of his father's home, staring at the folds of flesh in the old man's forehead as he fixed a stare back with his shoulders hunched forward and balding head beat red and vibrating. That time Edward had broken it all the way. And he wasn't sorry. The situation called for it. He wondered why these situations had a way of finding him. The whimper from behind 505 was fleeting but unmistakable. Footsteps began ringing up from the stairwell and down the corridor. Edward had his idea. In one smooth and determined motion he pulled out the key to room 505, opened the door and slipped inside. And finally tore his eyes away from the scratches.