Deluxe hotel, the brochure said. Apartment sized-rooms. You get your own little kitchen and living room and bedroom. A slightly smaller, more luxurious, home away from home.

The brochure didn't say anything about being woken up in the middle of the night by panicked pounding on the door.

I swung my feet over the side, and moved over the thick carpet to the door. I rubbed the sleep away from one eye and then put it to the spyhole. The pounding had stopped and I saw her, small and naked and covered in streaking blood. She slid slowly down the opposite wall, like her bones had turned to jelly.

I chewed my lip. I lost the argument and opened the door. I looked down both sides of the hallway. They were completely empty, the lights dimmed for the night.

She was too light as I carried her back and laid her down on the couch.

"Hell of a room," she said, befor

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CraigTowsley (joined almost 14 years ago)
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I think this site is like a power juicer to the armadillo-skinned oranges of writer's block.

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