Chapter 3: Dark Night

Chapter 3: Dark Night

Clarissa Herrington

"Here," the rough man from the driver's seat says, pulling into the parking lot of a run-down motel. The light flickers above the vehicle while I sit idly inside it. 

"This is the only place to stay in town?" 

"No. It's the furthest I'll take you from the city, though." He checked his watch with an irritated sigh. Pulling my card from my bag, I tap it against the reader in the back seat. How innovative these cabs have become. 

"Thanks," I say, but he doesn't respond before pulling out of the parking lot, before the door has even closed completely behind me. Charming man, I am sure. There are only two cars in the parking lot, and assuming there is someone here to check me in, one of them belongs to the doorman. With a hanging sign above the door that reads "check-in here" is a door with the word "vacancy" glowing green within its window. 

"Oh, hello!" a woman calls from behind the desk. She sets a broom down against the wall, rushing to her place behind the counter. Her smile is wide, and her features vibrant with energy, despite the late hour of nearly two in the morning. 

"Hi...just need a room." I smile back at her, but I can feel my tired eyes fighting to close right here and now. 

"Sure!" 

"Is it usually this...vacant?" I sign the paper she slides over the counter towards me, trading her for my credit card. 

"Oh, no, it's not vacant. It's almost a full house tonight." I remain quiet for a long moment when she says this, wondering if she is mentally all there. 

"There are only two cars in the lot," I say plainly. She nods her head. 

"Yeah, well, it's a full moon." I slowly look towards the door, wondering if it is too late to call that cabbie back. I hear the ding of her credit card reader, letting me know the transaction went through. I take my card from her, shoving it to the bottom of my bag with the key she hands me. Instead of a nice white card with a magnetic reader programmed into it, this key is old, silver, and feels greasy in my fingertips. 

"Thanks," I mumble on my way out, heading to room number six, where she directs me. There is a cold breeze that cools my skin the moment I step back outside, and I take a slow, deep breath in. This is why I came here. It doesn't matter that I am in this shitty little motel. What matters is that I am here, away from Chris. 

My fingertips run across the length of my stitches, feeling each abrasive bump beneath my touch. 

Unlocking my door, I hear the distinctive sound of the neighbouring room's bedframe crashing into the wall repeatedly. I had seen areas like this in movies, and laughed at the constant jokes surrounding them. Calling them hook-up locations. Now, I don't find it quite as funny. There is a thick scent of cigarette smoke burned into the room, as if it were built on top of a tobacco shop, and when I try to close the curtains, one is stuck at the top, leaving it in the open position.  

"One night. I'll find something better tomorrow," I tell myself, dropping down on the squealing bed. I hardly get my tennis shoes off before drifting to sleep on top of the blankets. 

My hands shake while setting the plate down in front of him. It's his favorite dinner. He won't be mad. There is a gnawing sensation in my stomach when I sit across from him. His grey-blue eyes hardly flick up to me before he focuses on the plate. 

"What is this?" 

"Pasta." It's always pasta...

"It's always pasta, isn't it, Clarissa?" I nod slowly while a tear breaks through my misted eyes. 

Chris stands quickly, sending his chair tumbling backwards, causing me to jolt in surprise. 

"You're scared of me?" He asks in a low voice, taking a single step to be closer to me. His index finger hooks beneath my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. 

"No." I swallow, keeping my eyes on his. 

"Yes, you are. Did I do something to you?" He lowers his face closer to mine. 

"No. It was me," I tell him, tightening my teeth together. 

"What was, Baby?" His breath peppers my cheeks, and more tears fall, splashing against my cold arms. 

"It was my fault." Chris dips his head, looking up at me with a gentle expression. 

"Don't cry. We all make mistakes." He uses his thumb to brush a stream of tears away from my face, leaving it hot from his touch. 

"Does it hurt?" He asks, tilting his head to the side, letting his blond hair fall with it. 

"Does what hurt?" I lower my brows, focusing on his expression as he looks down. I follow his line of sight, finding the blood-covered knife buried inside my stomach. The moment my eyes land on it, blood begins to rush from the wound. Panicked, I look for my phone to call the police. 

"Not this time," Chris says with a smirk, holding my phone up in front of him with a wave. My hand wraps around the base of the knife, and I let out a deafening scream when I pull on it. The moment it's out, red pours from my stomach, pooling onto the floor beneath my chair. I look down at the knife, finding it completely clean. In the reflection, I can see myself. The terror in my eyes, my open and panting mouth. My hand falls slack when I see him standing behind me with a grin on his face.

The moment I feel my tingling skin, the sweat on my forehead and neck, I roll to the side of the bed. Hardly finding the small garbage can in time, I vomit up the little bit of food in my stomach. I stay hunched over the edge of the bed for almost ten minutes while I heave, wishing I could throw up what my body doesn't have.  

I don't move until there is a soft, almost unnoticeable knock at my door. 

"Yeah?" I call out half-heartedly, taking a deep breath to keep from folding back over the trash. When no one answers, I swing my legs off the bed, hobbling towards the door. Remembering the unorthodox arrival I had last night, I make sure to use the peephole first, before opening the door. With no one in sight through the peephole, I slowly open the creaking door. 

On the ground in front of the door is a single can of Ginger Ale and a packaged microwavable burrito.