It was early morning and the lights were out.
Alena was hauled, half conscious, into the basement hallway. Rabel was waiting—as calm and collected as ever—scrubs in hand.
Alena was going to be a maid that day.
"I trust you know what to do"—his voice was laced with warning—"and what not to do."
She cleaned sheets, folded beds, and vacuumed the floors; skimpy outfits were replaced with the navy blue scrubs she was given.
She wasn't Alena anymore. Her long hair now curled under her chin, dyed platinum. Golden skin was coated in enough makeup to look paper white. It had taken an hour for her to look unrecognizable.
Carly had never been real in the first place.
Her hair wasn't fire and she didn't have freckles.
She also couldn't remember how long she had been at the hotel.
Room 342.
Alena slowed her cart to a stop and slipped out a room key from a pocket and entered the room.
They'll never make mistakes, will they?
The room was cleared, and even though she felt a ghost squeeze at her heart, Alena was vacant. The paper she clutched in her hand said it was empty, just as it did for Carly and her that distant first day; it had been confirmed that the guests had checked out on time. She was too tired to glare at the cameras undoubtedly monitoring her movements; instead, she grabbed supplies from her cart and shuffled in.
Change the sheets.
Check for belongings.
Vacuum the carpet.
There was nothing worth occupying herself with other than the chores she knew she would be repeating dozens more times.
She had made a choice.
Moved on to the next number on the list.
548.
Change the soaps.
Clean the toilet.
Replace the tissues.
This is what they want, right?
He told me they were happy.
But this wasn't what Alena wanted. Her movements were stiff and heavy, like a puppet being dragged through these endless days. She could only focus on the red carpet at her feet, a muddied river of blood she would never escape.
She didn't want to see red again. Not on the floors or on herself or anywhere.
But this was what her family wanted, needed. If she went back they would never forgive her for ruining their lives.
She tugged on the long sleeves of her shirt.
"Think of it this way. If you don't sacrifice a little, then everyone in your family will have to sacrifice a lot."
550.
He was right. If Alena didn't work, then it would only cause more trouble for everyone.
"Hello? Are you all right?"
She realized that she hadn't taken a step in too long; her cart was hovering in front of room 551 where a man was positioned, an outstretched arm propping open the door.
He questioned again. "Are you all right? You look sick."
Honestly, Alena felt like she would collapse on the spot. All the blood had drained from her face and her body was dangling dangerously from a string. She wanted it to be over, to call her mother and scream and cry and beg to go home. It felt like, no, she was living a nightmare.
Is this what it takes to live like Thalia?
No amount of makeup could hide her reactions.
Her body was trembling, but she refused to lose her grip on the cart. Her hands looked like bone but felt like jelly.
She wouldn't be swept away.
"I'm...fine," Alena managed, bowing her head so her hair veiled the emotions she worked so hard to mask.
But her mask was cracking and crumbling.
"You sure don't look fine," he remarked, leaning closer to get a glimpse through her drawn curtains.
I can end it now. Tell him the truth.
Tell him the truth.
Tell him the truth.
Tell him the truth.
She reached up and tucked the hair behind an ear.
Straightened her collar and tugged her sleeves well over her wrists.
Alena chose the best she had.
"No, really," Alena grinned through welling tears."Just a hea-headache, that's all. I get migraines sometimes. It usually t-takes a few to pass the worst."
He scrutinized her a few moments longer before apologizing. "Sorry for interrupting your work."
She touched her temples as if massaging away the pain before continuing to the next room.
The man's door shut with a click.
She entered the next room.
553
