You can't leave him there. You take hold of him just under the arms and drag him into the bathroom. The longer it takes someone to discover the body, the better.
As you hoist him into the tub you find yourself wondering if he was working alone or if there was a car somewhere waiting for him. His body lands in the tub with a thump and you wash your hands before exiting the bathroom.
You step back into the room and stuff your scrap book and camera back into your pack before shouldering it and stepping out of the room and into the night.
You take a few steps before you are greeted by the black asphalt of the parking lot, your feet echoing off the exterior walls of the hotel like a B-Rate movie villian approaching an endangered damsel in an alleyway.
You look around you as you head back towards the highway. It doesn't appear that you are being followed. Of course, if you are being followed, you muse, it shouldn't look like you're being followed.
After a few minutes walking in the quite of the night with only the sounds of your footsteps, the crickets, and the occasional woosh of a passing car, you find yourself at a chainlink fence which seperates you from the path to New York.
You climb over the fence and drop down on the other side, attempting to land on your feet but clumsily falling onto your back. Claudia used to compare you to a trapese artist. Once someone asked which trapese artists and she replied "A dead one".
It was things like that that made you love her so. The way she would ridicule you in such a jovial mannor. The way she would occasionaly penetrate your thick skin, pricking your heart, and going through unending lenghts to make up for it.
You cursed God the moment it happened. Everyone told you that He would help get you through it. But the only way he could help you would be to bring her back. Make it so it never happened. You prayed to him for a few nights after the accident, had many of those long and depressing monologues called prayer. But He never brought her back. He took her away from you, but He won't bring her back to you. And if he can't do that, you decided long ago, then what good is He?
The honking of a horn from beside you startles you out of your inner turmoil. You look over to see a small hatch-backed vehicle on the side of the road. The driver, a middle aged man, staring at you.
"You shouln't be walking on the side of the highway." He tells you. "Let me give you a ride."
As you hoist him into the tub you find yourself wondering if he was working alone or if there was a car somewhere waiting for him. His body lands in the tub with a thump and you wash your hands before exiting the bathroom.
You step back into the room and stuff your scrap book and camera back into your pack before shouldering it and stepping out of the room and into the night.
You take a few steps before you are greeted by the black asphalt of the parking lot, your feet echoing off the exterior walls of the hotel like a B-Rate movie villian approaching an endangered damsel in an alleyway.
You look around you as you head back towards the highway. It doesn't appear that you are being followed. Of course, if you are being followed, you muse, it shouldn't look like you're being followed.
After a few minutes walking in the quite of the night with only the sounds of your footsteps, the crickets, and the occasional woosh of a passing car, you find yourself at a chainlink fence which seperates you from the path to New York.
You climb over the fence and drop down on the other side, attempting to land on your feet but clumsily falling onto your back. Claudia used to compare you to a trapese artist. Once someone asked which trapese artists and she replied "A dead one".
It was things like that that made you love her so. The way she would ridicule you in such a jovial mannor. The way she would occasionaly penetrate your thick skin, pricking your heart, and going through unending lenghts to make up for it.
You cursed God the moment it happened. Everyone told you that He would help get you through it. But the only way he could help you would be to bring her back. Make it so it never happened. You prayed to him for a few nights after the accident, had many of those long and depressing monologues called prayer. But He never brought her back. He took her away from you, but He won't bring her back to you. And if he can't do that, you decided long ago, then what good is He?
The honking of a horn from beside you startles you out of your inner turmoil. You look over to see a small hatch-backed vehicle on the side of the road. The driver, a middle aged man, staring at you.
"You shouln't be walking on the side of the highway." He tells you. "Let me give you a ride."
- ID: 29789
- Hits: 155
