Away

Hotel Penn

I wheel my holdall through the crowds of people, through three, four, five blocks, until I am so close to Times Square I can almost feel the energy coming from it.

I find Hotel Pennsylvania.

It is grand and tall and looms over me, shadowing the street. People in suits and ties clamber out of taxis, and drag their suitcases up the polished steps.

This was one of the cheapest hotels I could find in a short space of time - but there were others I'd seen on the way here. They all looked worn out, but cheap.

I opted for this one.

It was in the centre of everything. And Kate was here.

For some reason, I hope I bump into her on purpose. After all she is technically the only person I know in the city.

The man at the counter I approach has a stern face, wrinkled and greying, half concealed by an old fashioned blue and gold cap.

He hands me over a key and tells me how to get to my room.

I have three days here booked.

It leaves me with a hundred dollars.

The elevator I step into is gold and gleaming. It looks like something out of an Art Deco movie.

As the lift climbs up through the shaft, I run calculations through my head.

One hundred dollars would give me a a few days worth of food and some leftover dollars for some more clothes.

I cannot bear to wear anything I packed.

Mum had bought every item.

I tangle my fingers in the loose threads of my neck scarf, then, as the lift doors ping open, I recoil in horror.

She... She brought me this scarf. For my birthday, a month ago. She gave it to me. M-

No.

I will not think of her.

I can't think about her.

Not now.

There is a bin at the end of the dimly lit corridor I walk into. I unwind the scarf from around my neck hastily, then stuff it into the bin, before I turn back and head for my room.

The hotel's lobbies and lifts and front doors are grand and beautiful.

But the rooms above are small. Dim. Damp.

My bathroom door will not lock, but that isn't a problem. I am the only one here in my room.

There is a lamp hanging from a wall over a worn wooden cabinet. I begin to unpack all of my things.

I shove all of my spare clothes into a bottom drawer. I will not take them out. I will leave them there. I will buy new ones later tonight. Out of my window, there's a flickering neon sign for an Old Navy store just around the corner.

I flop down onto my bed and a spring creaks in protest. I gaze up at the ceiling. There is a small damp spot in the corner. And the lightbulb is swaying lazily.

The thrum of the traffic, the screeching of wheels, the beeping of taxis filters through the half open window.

I don't know how long I lay there, thinking of... her, thinking of mum and dad, dragging my fingers through my new hair. But as the tears start to fall, I fall asleep.