Room 215

I died last night.  Right now, I stand in the late afternoon sun, invisible to the world, watching my girlfriend; the girl who had pushed me to my death, struggling to open the door to a cheap motel room.  She was struggling to get the key in the lock, because she kept looking over her shoulder, first left, then right. 

Finally she got the key in the lock, twisted it and the door was open.   No sooner was the door open, she was inside and the door was closing again, the brass numerals 215 glinting in the afternoon sun, which would have made my eyes squint as they passed over my face, if I still saw through living eyes.
I imagined she was leaning against the door inside, relieved and slumping to the floor, thankful to be safe from view.

She had every right to feel nervous, the cops probably hadn’t found my body yet, but they would soon enough and then they would come for her first.  When they find her gone, she’s going to become their number one suspect.  But it’s not the police she has the most to fear from.  The people who were really responsible for my death would soon be rousing, and then they would come looking for her and this time I wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop them from doing what they would do to her. 

I watch over room 215 until it starts to get dark, then I head back to the town she has just left behind, I have other people to check on there tonight.




It seemed to take an age to get the door open.  All the while I was trying to get the stupid key in the damn lock, I had to keep looking over my shoulder.  Now I was this close to semi-safety, the blood was pounding in my ears and I feared the noise would drown out the footsteps of anyone approaching.  Finally the door was open and I shut it swiftly behind me, leaning against the door once inside and allowing myself to slump against the door momentarily, taking advantage of the marginally cooler air inside the small room.

I don’t rest long.  Since we stopped at the gas station, I’ve felt like someone was watching me.  The hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end now again, as I peek out from behind the thin, faded curtains hanging at the room’s one small window.  My room overlooks the parking lot and the road outside.  Apart from the manager going back in to his office I can detect neither sight nor sound of anyone else.

Assured that I was indeed safe for now, I checked out the rest of my new home.  The feeling that I was being watched didn’t go away until dark, after which time I must have felt safe enough to sleep.  I slept surprisingly deeply and was only wakened at all because someone was pounding heavily on the door to my room.

The End

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