Last Stay

X. There

I finally find a parking spot across from the snow-covered park, and start making my way down the sidewalk towards the hotel. The trees near the river are twisted and dark as though they were trying to escape winter's freezing grip, but failed. And instead, they died painfully, holding their leafless branches up in futile effort to shield themselves from their impending fate. Near the bank, one of the trees fell over, perhaps overcome by a storm. There was nothing it could do; the constant wind and heavy snow eventually beat it down to the ground.

Maybe that's a picture of life. Maybe everyone ends up facing one storm too many at some point; it pushes them to their breaking point; their roots give out, and they fall.

My hands slide into the pockets of my coat as the brown brick building belonging to the Riverbend Hotel draws closer. As my steps echo off the cement surface, my mind continues to flood with a torrent of thoughts.

What am I going to say to her? What if he's there with her? What if this is where it ends for us? Fuck. I don't even know what room they're staying in. Stay calm. The rooms with the best views are on the upper floors, so that's the place to start.

Soon, I find myself at the steps of the hotel. I look up, take a deep breath and head inside. As soon as the doors slide open, a puff of heated air washes over me. I flash a slight smile at the receptionist behind the desk; she returns a bright smile, and I make my way towards the stairwell.

Part of me wants to jog to the top, but I resist the urge and try to steady my troubled mind. Step by step, my feet climb until the stairs come to an abrupt end on a landing leading to a door with number eight next to it. I reach for the handle and am greeted by a darkly lit hallway with beige coloured walls, forcing me to remove my sunglasses. I slip them into my coat pocket and continue making my way down the hall.

All the doors are made of dark wood; each features golden numbers and handles. An odd, light brown carpet with what look like scratch marks in its centre runs along the floor. Here and there, paintings that look like a mess of scribbled lines hang on the walls.

I suppose anything can be framed and called art these days.

Half-way down the hall, I stop dead in my tracks, suddenly having trouble breathing. A sweltering heat grabs hold of me. The hallway is spinning, causing; I lean against the nearest wall for support. Sweat pours down my back like warm rain. My breaths are growing shorter with each passing second. I dry-heave as the scent of rotting, burning eggs pollutes my lungs.

"There," says that low, raspy voice.

My heart jumps into my throat. I jerk my head left and then right, but see nothing. Almost immediately, the door directly across from me opens with a groaning creak, sending chills racing down my spine. The hallway stops spinning as my vision adjusts to see room 805's door ajar; as quickly as they came, the heat and the smell vanish.

The voice was right before...so that must be...the room.

Looking down both ends of the dimly lit hallway, I confirm that I'm alone before approaching the partially open room. My hand shakes as I reach for the handle. I slowly push the door open and peek inside; it seems empty. I slip inside, quietly closing the door behind me.

I exhale softly and scan the room, or rather, the suite. To my left sits a jacuzzi; across from it are a comfortable-looking, green chair with a matching ottoman in front of it. Next to the chair is a small, wooden table with a book resting on top of it. And just off the sitting area are sliding, glass doors that lead to a balcony which overlooks the river.

But my eyes are drawn to the large bed between the small side tables crowned with matching lamps at the far end of the room. As I begin to walk towards it, something starts boiling in the pit of my stomach. Each step I take sends more liquid rage through my body.

I stare down at the dishevelled sheets and see them lying there. Angela's head rests on his bare chest as his arm holds her tightly. Their eyes are closed as they breathe in each other's air. The bubbling blood flowing through my veins reaches my hand, baling it into a tight fist.

I could break his jaw if I hit him in the right spot. Hearing it snap out of its socket would become my new favourite beat. At least then, he'd know a fraction of my fucking pain.

As my eyes drift over to Angela's face, the boiling fever reaches my head. She looks...content. My eyes start burning; the dam's threatening to break. I shake my head, trying to push back the flood that's clouding my vision. And in a single sigh, both bodies dissolve into grains of sand which blow away like dust in the wind.

I wish all the evidence that they were here had vanished with them. But the white sheets are stained with their lust. On the side table, next to a bouquet of yellow tulips lies a torn condom wrapper, matching the one by the steps of the Jacuzzi. I turn away from the bed; I can't look at it anymore.

Just breathe.

The fist my hand made loosens and falls apart as I wander over to the table next to the chair. Without fully registering the thought, I pick up the book and flip it over. I'm greeted by an unsettling cover that features a black, mouth-foaming, demon with bat wings, choking a helpless man as it flies through the air. Beneath the startling image is the title which reads: The Monk by Matthew Lewis.

I've seen this book somewhere before.

I flip the novel open to the first page. On the inside of the cover is the name Ivan Moore written in handsome cursive letters with blood coloured ink. In the middle of the book, a card from the Kensington Art Museum holds the reader's place in Volume II of the story.

The Kensington Art Museum is one of the train stations along Angela's way to work. She does stop in there from time to time. Maybe that's where they met. He must have walked over while she was admiring one of Pissarro's masterpieces when they were on loan from The Musée d'Orsay.

I should have gone with her when she asked.

Ivan must have impressed her with his knowledge of French painters from different periods. Then he bought her coffee from the café in the bookstore just past the information desk. They chatted about novels, laughing and smiling like two best friends, gradually realising that there was more between them than just a love of paintings and books.

Ivan, do you love my wife? Does she...is she happy with you?

Suddenly, my head feels feather-light as the book slips out of my hand. The sweat-inducing air is returning. Dark spots are starting to cloud my vision. My legs buckle and sway like limp noodles as the floor changes places with the ceiling; I'm going to pass out.

No—not here—I have to get outside. Get to the hallway.