Short Stories

The Twelfth Labour

Lee stood and observed what he had brought. What all of his efforts culminated up to. The room had recently been painted red but from no toils of any painter. The same jingle played over the intercoms just like it had always kept doing since Lee arrived. Swaying palm trees danced outside the windows on the entrancing beach. The sterility of the room was nauseating. The blue fluorescent lights in the newly reddened white room gave off a faint hum that burrowed its way right through Lee's skull and into his mind. Pointlessly. Pleasurable. Opulence. Living like a King was never more harrowing. He racked his brain or at least tried to. His eyes were disturbed and his tongue finally tasted disgust. His mind entered itself and turn inside out. The same jingle echoed far into his ears, bleeding them of any other beautiful sound. Lee was accompanied by two other people. Their realities fought and fought and yet they couldn't speak. They made sure they couldn't speak. Crimson face masks were their specific style now, after everything. Pointlessly. Pleasurable. Opulence.

Lee fell to the ground; the knees of his pants now adopting a similar shade to the cascading veils the two lovers had placed on. His mind became his voice in a coalescence of horror. He screamed. His heart and soul finding a metaphysical key to release themselves for but a moment. The others in the room chose this path just as Lee walked in. The end of his gauntlet. The jingle almost seemed amused as it kept playing, overtaking Lee's scream once he finished. Of course, the jingle won in the end. Who did you think was going to? Pointlessly. Pleasurable. Opulence. Written in italics. It loomed over their room like a pair of eyes. Room 12 was the second last room not painted red.

He remembered the girl, Mrs P, talking about coming to this place with her mother as a child and living here all her life. He remembered her explaining how she met the other man in the room, Mr H, her husband. Lee kept witnessing this image. This terrible, horrible unliving picture; and yet, the palm trees kept swaying. They were engaged in a dance that was meant to torment the mind. Mrs P and Mr H weren't allowed to see each other for half the year. One of the few rules of this hallowed resort. He couldn't keep his eyes away. They were now together. Forever. Marriage vows were broken. Till death do us part rang untrue. It rang with the same resonance of the jingle that played. Filling the air with a warm atmosphere. Lee's hands were caught, red, but there was no one who would be there to punish him. Lee realized his fate. The futility of his dozen labours. Something designed to give him indestructible hope, only to have it smite.

Mrs P and Mr H had helped him throughout the hotel. Helping him find his way and giving him the tools to thrive. Lee questioned whether or not they had helped him or if they had cursed him. He realized, in hindsight, he had, without thinking, taken away his company in 12 beautifully ironic strokes. The twelfth stroke coming from the hands that fed. They wanted to be alone and in love in paradise. Lee left the room; the room wouldn't leave him. The sunflower bowl of pomegranates still in the same place as usual. The bowl's colours clashed with Mrs P's and Mr H's newly introduced velvet splatter. However, the pomegranates inside and the splatter blended beautifully with each other. Lee should've known not to mess with forces like theirs. With these relative gods. Lee walked out onto the beach and grabbed a glass of wine from the beachside Oeta bar. He was a pawn. A piece meant to be used in their homicidal game against those who kept them apart. He finished his drink and set down two gold coins onto the countertop. He then saw a cloak on one of the barstools. He wore it and felt all of his emotions wash over him. The beautiful land is meant to be shared. The jingle kept playing. The palm trees kept swaying and the beach bonfire roared to life. Who could blame Mrs P and Mr H? They certainly didn't. His cloaked only brought more of his existential horror out. He understood only one thing. The only truth. The same truth he had gifted onto the other residents and the truth Mrs P and Mr H had gifted onto themselves. Pointlessly. Pleasurable. Opulence.

He walked into the bonfire.