The Hotel For Lost Travelers

Jade

My name is Jade Riley Williams.

No, mom, it isn't Jake.

I'm a girl.

Well, by midnight tonight, it won't matter.

By midnight tonight, I'll be dead.

My mom's already said that I'm dead to her; father left when I was two; no siblings; and one friend that ran away and they never found her body.

So I've decided to die; it's honestly better this way, no matter what you say.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme; this isn't the place or time.

I'm a poet and I just didn't know it.

Shitty rhymes aside, I've decided how I will die, where I will die, and when I will die.

I will write a note for when the cops find my body; I'll grab a chair or something tall and make a noose; I'll wear the rope necklace; I'll call the cops and tell them someone is committing suicide; I'll jump, note in hand.

It really is rather melodramatic, but that suits me.

So I have my rope, I have the ability to make a noose (Boy Scouts, ugh), and I have my pen and paper and phone.

As for where?

There's an old shitty motel in the bad side of town, next to all of the substandard motels on the corner of Fourth and Fremont Street. People like my mom would cross themselves before answering, and it has a scent of asbestos and just a dash of formaldehyde. Unfortunately, it's weirdly hard to find; it's got a habit of disappearing right before your very fucking eyes.

And if I survive the walk there, I'll die in that motel.

There is a specific reason that I'm going to the motel; I didn't just pick a random fucking place to kill myself in.

No, if I'm going to die, it's going to be dramatic, over-the-top, and above all, flamfuckingboyant.

I've dressed myself in my favorite outfit: a short dark green dress with black ruffles; black lace finger-less gloves that go up to my elbows; one black Converse high-top shoe, one white; my hair is done up in a side bun, which accentuates the green streak in my  light brown hair; my nails are painted alternating black and white; I have one black and white diamond sock that goes to my knee, the other sock has purple and orange stripes that goes halfway up my calf; a black and white messenger bag with the rope, pen, paper, and some cash; and to top it all off, my mascara is in a cat's eye design with glitter sprinkled all over my face. Also, a Transgender Pride Pin is stuck to my dress.

I fucking told you it would be flamfuckingboyant.

It may have been a shitty mistake looking so queer (in both forms of the word) as I walked down the street, but at least the creepy pedo pervs on the street whistle and say, "Hey, Peaches. Yer a purty li'l girlie."

At least they think I'm a girl.

My bitchy mom, on the other hand....

My mom threw a--

Nope.

Nopity nope nope nope big ol' bag-o-nope. Nope.org. Nope.biz.uk. #nope.

Yep, I fucking went there.

I fucking said hashtag nope.

That's how nope I'm feeling about reliving my mom's bitching.

Right now, this is about me.

Not my mom; not my dead friend, Sprite; not God; not about my gender.

This is about me.

Or, more specifically, my death.