DYING MOURNINGS, original

seven : the motel

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𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 : 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋

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Crow returned ten minutes after storming out with a six pack under one arm. He sat down on his bed and pulled a beer from the pack and tossed it to me and I stared at him, lips parted in my own shock.

"You risked your life outside for this?" I murmured, opening the can without even thinking and taking a long, bitter sip. It warmed me instantly, not even noticing how I was shivering moments before.

"I needed something with a little edge if I'm going to be spending the night with you telling me about all my greatest hits," responded Crow with a scowl, opening his own beer.

His face was slick with rain and his hair and shirt were yet again drenched but he didn't seem bothered by it. Maybe the cold didn't even bother him, since he was a demon. I hated him, though. I hated the way he was seemingly unfazed by my harsh words, I wanted more out of him. I hate him for the way he looked and I hated him for how smoothly he spoke, the way it was still mesmerizing in person as it always was over the phone.

I hated that I knew what he was, that he was no longer the man on the phone I found such odd comfort in.

I watched him sit back against the headboard, engrossed in what the weather woman was now telling us. It didn't look like the storm was going to let up anytime soon, so I tipped the beer back and drank as much as I could before putting it aside and crawling underneath the disgusting blankets and prayed there were no bed bugs here.

The sheets were scratchy and rough, but warm all the same. I burrow in them, keeping my bag and my jacket on the bed with me as a comfortable weight by my side. The pillows are surprisingly soft and thankfully clean, and my wounded head that has been giving off an incredible dull ache for most of the night sings with joy when I lay down.

I had almost forgotten about my wound after my shower, too involved in Crow and the bag of chips he'd gotten me. Now though, with the soft sound of the television and the roar of rain outside, it was the only thing I could focus on now.

It throbbed with the pulse of my steady heart, now laced with warmth from the alcohol. It wasn't enough to get me drunk or even tipsy, but it made me warm and that was all that mattered with the creeping cold.

The television flickered and I knew we would lose power sometime soon and I wished I had brought a phone charger with me to school but I didn't anticipate being stranded. I definitely didn't anticipate being buried alive either.

The smell of cigarettes began to waft through the room and I sat up a little, peering over my pillows and towards the other bed. It was funny to see Crow with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. I couldn't stop the laugh even if I tried as it bubbled free and I buried my face into the pillow with a wild grin.

"What's so funny?" he grunted and I looked up again and held out my hand. He reluctantly leaned over and passed me the cigarette. I took a slow inhale once it was between my lips and that burn soothed me instantly, the ache in my head passed aside for the calm the smoke gave me.

I sucked in again as I passed it back, feeling the strain in my lungs before releasing into the air. I always loved the look of smoke leaving someone's lips and it only drove my addiction more. As much as I had wanted to quit, the stress and sudden emotional toll the events of the past few months have had on me forced me to pick up my deadly habit again.