I saw all.
In spite of the petty attempts of suffocating me with that tacky wallpaper, I saw all. Rimmed with yellow urban moss, I was not blinded by the nicotine. The stench that spewed from the cracked windows, although repulsive, did not force me out. The flavours of futility swam through the room and leeched onto my taste buds; still, I would not quit. The pathetic weakling of a doorknob quivered as a cackle erupted behind it. We had a guest.
Falling to the cheap rug, a woman with matted hair glued together with vomit entered. Grasping the bed, gasping for air, she tried to raise herself from the ground. She failed. Her purse and all her money stolen. Along with her dignity. She did not give a shit as long as the white powder she had was still wedged in her bra. A few sambuca shots later, she forgot it all. Sorting the coke into three lines, she realised there was no way she could sleep here another night.
Our next guest, the next night was a man with the snout of a pig. Some may argue this resembled his true identity. With his ring conveniently lost in the midst of his bag, a girl showed up. Thus, there were a few cracks in his vows. When three minutes of fun were over the girl spotted a shiny object in his bag. That's when he realised there was no way he could sleep here another night.
Our final guest on our final night paid a visit - hammer in hand. Knocking me off my feet with no mercy. The community thrived in pitiless happiness. The grungy motel was shutting down. With three agonising hits to my guts, I realised there was no way I could sleep here another night.
I saw all.
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Butterflies In Jars
Historia CortaWelcome, welcome to my collection of little jars of flash fiction waiting to be opened and spread their wings. Feel free to take a peek but be careful. Once you set them free, they have a habit of lingering. Comment and vote if you so wish to!
