Weightless

19) A Quick Decline

31st of May 2017 (3 days later)

For want of a better word, it's a pretty shit hotel.

Ethan has stayed here for around six days now (Or is it longer? He doesn't know. Every day seems to last a lifetime) and he still can't list a good thing about it. His mind isn't focusing on anything positive. The negatives always seem to be magnified, lately. They're all he can see. It's hard to be positive in a dark room which smells weird.

In actual fact, the room itself is the definition of shabby. No care has been given to keep up even a borderline clean appearance. The bed is soiled with a questioning grey; as if it hasn't been changed for a long time. The bed frame is the opposite of sturdy, creaking with every toss and turn. The shelves hanging above it on the cheaply wallpapered wall are a hazard in themselves. It looks like management attempted to decorate with ornaments that could only be worth £10 at most on the shelf, but gave up quickly as there's only one or two. And with the dusting they certainly didn't give a damn. An inch thick of it rests on his bedside table, the lampshade on the unworking lamp and the yellowing windowsill. There's a strong smell of smoke coming from the window, open just a fraction, because he wanted to at least attempt to clear out the stench of damp.

As for the bathroom, it smells of damp and sickly vanilla hand soap. The flickering light bulb in there has an irritating buzzing noise, filling the small room with an incessant little noise which only annoys him. There's very little that's clean in there. The once white shower curtain is greying, the tiles on the wall are grimy, the scummy counter tops are unwashed and the sides of the bath have peeling silicone sealant in them.

Still, it's a temporary home. All despite its damp smell, growing mold, and irritating noises, that's what it is - home. The price is cheap, so he supposes he's gotten what he'd paid for; no more, no less. And, attempting to think positively, it's usually undisturbed. The staff doesn't tend to knock on his door. And that in itself is a blessing. The peace is what he's been craving.

Currently it's early in the morning. As soon as the clock reads six, Ethan decides he really ought to drag himself out of the bed. Might give him a false sense of confidence that he is, in fact, okay, because people who are okay can wake up early. And he's okay. Very okay.

He's been in the bed for a long time, laying there in a deep state of contemplation. He can hear people traveling down the hallway, maybe hurrying to work. Some could be sneaking away from their one-night stands, or alternatively heading home after a disappointment of a holiday or just nipping down for breakfast to then hide in bed again after. The whole time Ethan has been here, he hasn't walked into the cafes below the hotel room floors. Not once. And he doesn't understand the people who do and can so carelessly eat.

He puts two feet on the cold paneled floor. Almost immediately, he feels his head rush and his arms sting with cold. The tips of his fingers feel positively frozen. Ethan manages to walk through the room and to the bathroom before sitting on the edge of the bath. His whole body is so weak. It's not faring up very well, recently. His bruises from the stair accident are fading but his body still feels just as broken as it did before.

Water. That's what he needs. Ethan reaches over and drinks from the tap water. It makes him grimace but it's all that he'll allow filling his stomach today. He had some sort of food yesterday. And, God, did his body suffer from it.

Ethan silently runs his fingers atop of his sleeved left arm. It hides a lot of secrets. He rests on the edge of the bath more steadily, feeling heavy with the weight of what he'd done on his shoulders.

Because, yesterday, he'd done it again. The temptation of just seeing himself bleed hadn't been something he could say no to. So his body had been inflicted with pain which pleased his mind. The blood has dried now but the memory hadn't faded. There'd been something so forbidden about tearing into his own skin that he'd had to rebel. He'd had to. It calmed his racing mind, it relaxed his thoughts. The shame was hell afterward. But the temporary release he'd gotten from such short-lived satisfaction seemed to be worth the harm to himself.