Sunday Scribblings: View from Inside

I see a row of cars, their license plates opalescent from the tawny street lights. A tree that could be maple covers the dully illuminated sign indicating my temporary residence. Cars criss-cross the newly repaved junction; they become fewer and fewer as the night progresses. The towering building across the street sits idly; there are no signs of life in the pale marbled lobby.

I feel better now with the three alit lamps sporting their energy saving bulbs. The air conditioner rumbles and squawks noisily. The clock reads 12:09 a.m. The hallway has long since quieted; I no longer hear flip-flopping footsteps pounding along the corridor. The door knocking enjoyed by what I can only imagine are middle school aged brats seems to have dwindled to Doppler Effect giggling that may belong either to a budding young female or a yet budded young man.

I must admit a sense of loneliness in this singular room. The regularly sized bed acts as the centerpiece around which all the other furniture fits. It is flanked by faux wood end tables upon which sit what I can only call ribbed cylindrical lamps that have most likely never actually been in style during any decade. Opposite the bed is a long unattractive bureau that resembles the end tables. Upon it sits a rectangularly ribbed lamp and a television that I cannot watch. Adjacent to the bureau is what passes for a kitchen: a miniature black refrigerator and a microwave that I never use. I stare at the lemon yellow rectangle on the wall, a reminder of the mirror that I shattered for fear of seeing more than I could bear.

The staff does not ask questions. Pay enough money, and you never have to worry about questions. They simply place the trays of food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at my door. And then they retrieve said trays like clockwork. Each week, I place the laundry bag outside the door; I find freshly laundered clothing awaiting me when I open the door later in the evening. If I need any toiletries or clothing, I simply make a list. They dutifully obtain and bestow.

It has been two years to the day since I stepped foot from this hotel room. Within the first three months, I contemplated multiple methods of suicide. I could jump, but a fall from the third story wouldn't kill me unless I dove head first. And I can't willingly dive head first. Drowning in the bathtub seemed overly difficult. They serve only butter knives even when they bring steak. Electrocution could work, but it freaks me out too much. So, after the third month, I decided to blind myself. Except I can't even get contacts because I'm afraid of touching my eyes. Suffice it to say, that didn't work either. I had to find another obsession.

I started peaking out the window at passersby, playing 'chicken' in a way. I'd stare long enough to see if people actually noticed. There are those who seem to have that sixth sense. And if they attempted to steal a glance, they'd see only a lightly swaying curtain where my eyes had been. Yes, it has come close a number of times, but I've been careful never to let it happen again. Not after what I did.

I was visiting for work from the east coast. I had just had dinner with a friend and walked to the bus stop to wait for the bus that would take me back to the hotel. At the bus stop was a young couple who didn't seem to speak much English. We exchanged smiles and waited. We three heard a man approach; he had the look of a vagrant. He started to yell, which seemed to scare the couple a bit. I glanced back at him disgustedly, but that encouraged him to yell all the more loudly. He got closer to the couple. When he turned towards me, he looked into my eyes. At that moment, I silently wished him dead. Except it was somehow conveyed to him as an order he could not disobey. I watched as he lost control of his body and fell to the ground writhing in momentary agony. Within two minutes, his body ceased all movement. All at once, the bus arrived, the woman screamed, and the vagrant breathed his last.

I have looked not one person in the eye since.