It's Always Been You

Malcom

We have been driving for 18 hours. Mom has been driving most of the time, but occasionally I take over because she starts to fall asleep. Multiple times she closed her eyes for a few seconds, but drifted onto the other side of the road, and we had to scream at her so we wouldn't get hit by oncoming traffic. 

The car has been silent for almost all of the 18 hours, minus Lily asking to go to the bathroom after she drank one too many root beers from the gas station. All of us are still in shock after what happened. Neither Rosie or I want to talk about it, so we don't. 

It's nearly dawn, and I can barely see the sun peaking out from behind a hill through my foggy, rain covered window. That's the other thing. It's still raining. Sometimes it rained so hard Mom had to pull over to let the rain smack against our windshield because she couldn't see the road. The rain shields our view of the outside, keeping us locked inside. 

Rain covers the road in a thick sheet as we continue to drive down a road so old, there are potholes that line every inch, making it impossible to sit in peace without your head thwacking against your seat or your legs hitting the door. 

"We should probably find a motel," Rosie says, breaking through the silence.  

"Look one up. Make sure it's cheap," Mom responds, her voice barely a whisper. After minutes of looking up motels, each one more expensive than the last, we finally choose a small, one-bedroom room for only $20. We all know it's probably a scam, and it's probably disgusting and dangerous, but we need to sleep, so soon, we are pulling into the parking lot. 

Our predictions were correct. One singular, broken lightbulb illuminated a dark shack with peeling wood and rotting doors. As soon as we walk in, a man with an unshaven beard and dreadlocks greets us with a grunt. 

"Go up the stairs to the room on the right," he grumbles, and sits back into his chair, putting his bare feet on top of a moldy desk. Mom quickly hands him a 20 and we walk up the creaky stairs to our room. 

The door is already open, and it won't shut. Pieces of old bark starts to flake off as we slowly push it open. A single candle is placed on the floor, with a lighter next to it. If we were to light it, our room would definitely burn down with us in it, so we leave it alone. 

A twin bed takes up most of the room, and a cracked mirror that hasn't been cleaned in decades hangs next to it on the wall. There are no windows, no bathroom, no electricity. Life really couldn't get any worse. 

After much complaining from Lily, we all decided she and Mom could sleep on the bed, and Rosie and I would take to the floor. There were no spare blankets or pillows, so we just covered ourselves with our sweatshirts and balled up our spare shirts under our heads. 

Soon, Rosie, Mom, and Lily fell asleep. I couldn't though, and listened to the creaking and moaning of the floors as the wind and rain shook it. After hours of laying on the floor underneath my stained sweatshirt, I got up and looked in the mirror. Finger prints dotted the mirror at every crevasse that divided my reflection, making it difficult to see anything. But, I didn't miss what I saw on my neck. I saw the marks he made on my skin, where he almost killed me. With time, they would probably disappear from view. But they would never disappear from my mind.