room 12

The rooms here suck.

I arrived with this waitress from the diner back down the highway. The food wasn’t much. Stale pecan pie and coffee so weak it comes out as piss unchanged. It was late, or early, depending on your perspective. I needed a bed, a place to lie down, watch some bad television and share a jar of bottom shelf whiskey. The key broke in the lock; the door just swung open. I saw the roaches scuttering away, looking for the darkness. I’d found it. I felt her bourbon breath on the back of my neck, and smelt the stale tang of halitosis and tobacco. Sounded like a song coming on. I turned and went to speak and saw that she was gone. What I thought was her breath was actually the funk rising off of the mangrove swamp behind the motel. I heard a muffled sobbing through the walls. Flicked the switch. The light bulb popped and I was stuck with the glow from the vacancy signage for company. No TV. Too dark to read from the bible that lay on the pillow. I opened it, nonetheless. Tore a page from the old testament, rolled a smoke, lay back against the headstock and sipped from the brownest of the brown, my back jolting lightly from the regular thump of the bedhead against the wall in the next room. Some guy was fucking his pillow, giving it a red hot go. Good on him. You got to find love where you can get it.

I heard footsteps. Thin heels clacking against the concrete. A shape moved past the curtain. I thought it was the waitress. The door fell open and there was a goat, upright on its hind legs, its eyes ablaze with the fires of Hell.

“You found me then,” I whispered, and felt the cold grey steel against my teeth.

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