The piercing light of the morning crept through the polyester, moth-eaten curtains inside the motel 8. The pastel paint above the chipped plastic trim, wheezed periodically down the four walls. All was quiet and still, save for the soft rattle of the air conditioner as it struggled to dispense a minimal amount of cool air throughout the meager room. It stank of
alcohol and stomach acid.
A groan disrupted the stale atmosphere as wrinkled cotton sheets morphed and churned atop the sagging mattress; a skeletal hand, wrist, forearm, and lastly, sunken feminine shoulders, sluggishly emerged.
“Get up and get dressed,” a gruff voice announced, “You reek, and you’ve been here too long.”
The small figure curled inward in a tight clump, warping the stained sheets around her waning frame like a second skin. She wanted a fix…and for that damn man to go away if he wasn’t going to offer her one.
“Did you hear me?”
The sheets, so tightly stuck around the huddled woman, were suddenly wrenched out from under her, sending the tiny body tumbling off the mattress with a squeak and a resounding thud.
A burst of laughter erupted from the man presently hovering above the shoddy bed as a nest of dark matted hair peaked over the fraying edge.
Settling himself on the rim of the bed, the lanky man struck a match and chuckled. “You look like shit
Amy.” The dilapidated springs croaked out in protest under his weight as he lifted the small flame to the dangling cigarette between his cracked lips. “You really need to go to rehab.”
The taunt in his tone was unmistakable, and severely unwanted as far as Amy was concerned. She rolled her hidden eyes in contempt.
As if sensing her response, another spout of his boisterous amusement perturbed the silence, and drilled agonizingly into Amy’s skull. She lifted her sallow face from the tattered floral cloth, sneering up at her tormentor in defiance.
“Not a fuckin’ chance.”