A/N: Holy crap you guys...here I had published chapter eleven thinking I was gonna get hate mail for the way I left it; I'm still reeling in shock. Your feedback, not to mention the amount of feedback, has been so incredible, that it has given me a dedication to Housekeeping that I consider to be the strongest support I have ever had or given to any creative writing project. Thank you all so very, very much Jordan Goombette, PurgatoryNymphe, KatieMarrie, SombodyStandingThere, corbsxx, trickstersink, Crazycoolname, Gir2345, TheTalkingCupcake, Kyrie Twilight, psychadelicious, whataFrenzy, AmazonaV, ThermodynamicMiracle, linalove, Joker molester here, Lorna Roxen, KrysOfSorrow, KorroksApostle, BloodyRose, Draven98, Casey, Cleonie Quinn, SleepyHeather, HeldAtRansom, ujemaima, Love-lyLove-lyLovely45, scarlett, shamenteen, Comidia Del Arte, mehar23mia, TinkerbellxO, elfenwindakachrno, pourquoibella, anna, Airelle, Lady Liesel, CC, Bubbles of Ebil, crazyinabottle, ChristianBale Girl 2010, Feels-Like-Paradise, To Be Half Of A Whole, HoistTheColours, Moz, Laurenmlc, Miss Tie, Darkendays, N, ra1nf1re and Aghanashini.

In July, I had an incredible vacation in London, England. If there are any Londoners reading, know you live in one amazing city. Listening to the Batman soundtracks while walking along the Thames is nothing short of totally epic. Have you all seen the new teaser for The Dark Knight Rises? Soooo excited!

Now, for the one you've all been waiting for.

Housekeeping

Chapter Twelve

/

For a brief, blessed moment, I felt an incredible rush of relief go through my entire system, and I smiled ecstatically for only a second before the gravity of the situation came rushing back to me when the goon squeezed my arm, possibly because he too was considering exactly what was going on at that very moment. Nevertheless, I winced, and looked to Jack with pleading eyes; surely he'd see how uncomfortable I was. Surely he'd do something, surely he wouldn't leave me at the mercy of this goon. But the more I looked at him, begging him to do something, the quicker I realized that Jack wasn't looking at me at all; he was looking at the goon, but I figured he was doing that to intimidate him, and it was working.

With every step Jack took towards us, with his dark eyes looking nothing short of deeply, deeply unimpressed, the goon became more and more agitated; I could sense his discomfort as he shifted his feet, obviously not feeling very grounded what with being slowly approached by this tall, toned, hulking pissed-off looking man with the scariest-looking scars on his face. As he advanced, I noticed how Jack's hands flexed and then curled into fists, and he smacked his lips, the way he casually would when I was cleaning his room, but the closer he came, the blacker his eyes, and slowly I felt less at ease of his sudden appearance, and more worried about what he was actually going to do.

And he still wouldn't look at me.

I tried to pull my arm out of the goon's grip, a mixed sound of frustration and fear leaving my throat, one so that the goon would simply let go of me, and two so that I could distance myself from whatever was about to happen. The goon simply growled low in his throat and squeezed my arm, dirtied fingernails biting into my skin, almost as if in warning, once again causing me to wince, and without looking at me he snarled under his breath. "You ain't goin' nowhere."

The hallway was eerily silent, save for the hard sound of Jack's footsteps on the crappy carpeting, and the wet, sloppy sounds that came from Jack chewing on the insides of his scars. It sent shivers up my spine, making goosebumps pan over my forearms. As he slowly approached I took in his appearance all at once: simple black T-shirt, dirty jeans, unremarkable shoes, moderately greasy-looking curls...he walked with his shoulders almost right up to his ears, hunched, like he was trying to make himself look bigger, but I knew he wasn't doing that on purpose. I'd noticed that that was just how he walked, and perhaps that's why he did it: he knew it scared people.

My lips trembled as he came towards us. I had the strongest urge to say his name, draw his attention to me, make him look at me. He wouldn't look at me and it felt like maybe he wasn't seeing me at all, he wasn't seeing the situation. If only he would look at me, he would be able to see my eyes, the desperation and the panic that I'm sure I was emanating, the tears that were threatening to spill, the fear that was so clearly displayed on my face. The need to say his name and the need to reach forward and touch him, touch him and not have him wave me off, like this had nothing to do with me whatsoever, like this was between him and the goon and the maid who was in danger of being raped had no part in this at all.

I didn't need him to take my hand and throw me behind him, grow claws and promise the goon he'd pay for touching me...I just needed him to look at me.

"What the fuck d'you want?" The goon spat suddenly, breaking the silence, drawing my attention up to his face. His brow was furred with anger but I could see the apprehension in his dark eyes and the way the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. He was scared of Jack, anyone could see that. Anxiously I turned to look to Jack, who's entire face was dark with displeasure.

He stopped within an arms reach of us; his shoulders were hunched, and his long, toned arms hung at his sides limply, but he was still flexing and clenching his hands, as if longing to wring a neck. I swallowed tightly and looked up to his face, as he was still noisily sucking at the insides of his cheeks, staring down the goon with his unblinking black glower.

Ceasing entirely with the cheek-sucking, Jack regarded the goon darkly and said, quite simply, in a very unimpressed tone of voice: "I'm trying to get some sleep."

I gaped at him. I could have laughed and cried and screamed all at once; was that all he was going to say? Without a moment's hesitation of both utter panic and blatant stupidity, I reached forward with my free arm, fingers aching to brush the skin of his arm. "Jack-"

With another snarl in his throat, the goon wrenched me back, and I let out a cry of disdain as I stumbled back and looked to Jack with tears blurring my vision. He will help me, I told myself secretly, over and over. He will help me.

Jack's eyes flickered to me and I closed my eyes with relief. Opening them and letting a tear roll down my cheek, I saw Jack's gaze was still on me, unchanged; there wasn't a glow of recognition in his eyes, like suddenly he realized the damsel in distress was me and not just some whore from the corner. No, there was just an emotionless stare, as though he'd never seen me before but realized the danger I was in and was contemplating on whether or not to cut me a break. It filled me with hope and broke my heart at the same time.

The goon scoffed loudly, and pointed his golden-ringed finger at Jack. "Fuck you, asshole, this ain't none of yer damn business!"

Jack's eyes broke from me and returned to the goon, and his forehead wrinkled considerably as he scowled, making his eyes look darker and his scars scarier. "You're disrupting my peace," Jack muttered in that low, dangerous voice that I had become all too familiar with in the first few days of our acquaintance. "And that sure ismy business."

Above me, the goon chuckled in disbelief, as though he couldn't believe that Jack had the gall to start something with him. But once again, studying his face, I could see that hidden layer of apprehension, the reluctance to start something he might eventually come to regret starting. But as soon as the chuckling started, it was replaced by another snarl of contempt and disbelief. Pulling me back slightly with the force in his one hand, the goon stepped forward to initiate the showdown, puffing up his chest.

"You want this to get ugly, asshole?" The goon's voice rose to a shout, and for a fleeting moment of sheer hope I thought that maybe, maybe Martin would hear him downstairs and come running to see what the fuss was about. It wasn't likely, since we were on the third floor, but at that point I was willing to hope anything would happen, anything to get me out of this mess in one piece.

The goon walked right up to Jack and they were very nearly nose to nose, obviously getting in each other's faces to rectify dominance. Jack had nothing on the goon's mass, which alarmed me for a moment, once I could compare them.

Once again I swallowed tightly, watching Jack's face. He never backed down, never once showed a sign that he would submit. His eyes were black and deep and murderous.

Puffing himself up, the goon starting shouting again, right in Jack's unrelenting face; I could see the spittle flying as his voice thundered all around us. "I'll make this real ugly if it'll please ya, motherfucker!"

What happened next happened so quickly that to this day, I still don't quite recall seeing everything clearly.

Jack moved like the speed of light, one hand grabbing the goon's stained wife beater and twisting it within the curls of his fingers very, very tightly, and with a strength I didn't know Jack possessed, he pushed the goon back against the doorframe, the sheer force of the push against the goon's back enough to make the cheap wood crack under the impact. The goon let out a surprised sound of shock and anger, and in his surprise, released my arm.

I jumped back, taking in the scene while cradling my arm close to my chest to soothe away the pain and the redness, and that was when Jack pulled the knife.

It was a small blade, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. At first glance I was positive it was a carrot peeler, but from the way it glinted in the overhead light, I could see that it was deathly sharp, and protruding from Jack's clenched fist was a thick, black handle. That was no carrot peeler. The goon, who's anger was suddenly replaced with wide-eyed fear, stared at the blade as though it too were something he'd never seen before.

"Yeaahhhhhhhh..." Jack drawled, in a startling high-pitched voice, almost laden with pleasure, as though he were trying to pick up a woman: it was a voice laced with...excitement. "Let's make this real ugly."

I stared, utterly amazed and scared shitless, as Jack rose the blade to the goon's face, keeping it just from touching his right cheek. The goon's frightened eyes following it methodically, and his chest was heaving with heavy breath.

Looking to Jack, he was completely unmoved, as though threatening people with knives was something he did everyday. His facial expression remained unchanged, his eyes were still dark and glowering but otherwise unfazed. He was completely cool, vanilla, neutral. The only thing that had changed, really, was the veins protruding from the skin on his arm as he clenched the goon's wife beater.

I could feel my breath leaving my lips in gasps as I stared. I knew I should have gone running down the hall screaming for help, but I simply couldn't pull away, and I couldn't say anything. It was like I wasn't there at all, like I was a ghost haunting the hotel and watching this conflict that had suddenly sprouted in the hallway.

Jack's tongue lashed out against his scars and the goon's eyes widened considerably, as though it were clear that after Jack killed him, he was going to eat him.

Then I gasped loudly. Was Jack going to kill him?

"Why don't we dance, hmm?" Jack asked in a merry little sing-song voice, the high-pitched voice that I was somewhat used to, and that seemed to do it for the goon.

In a single act of courage, the goon pushed Jack away from him, and for some strange reason, I'll never understand, Jack actually let go of the wife beater. Was he caught off guard, maybe? I was about to scream because I was sure the goon was going to pull a gun on Jack or something.

But, surprisingly, the goon held his hands up where we could both see them, and his face pulled into a deep frown, as though he had obviously trespassed on forbidden ground and knew it. Shaking his head slowly, his nose curled and he lurched forward. "You're fucking crazy!"

Jack breathed in a sharp breath and made a very displeased sound in his throat, which made me take a tentative step backwards, away from them. His lips pulling into a very tight sneer, Jack rose the blade as if in warning. "No I'm not. I'm not."

It's almost as if the words had come from the deepest depths of Jack's body, mixed with all the hate and anger he could possibly muster. He emphasized the T which pulled at my heart for a moment; suddenly I knew he had been called that countless times before.

Slowly, looking behind him, the goon retreated inside the doorway of his room; the bathroom door was still closed. Suddenly I wondered if the whore in the bathroom was aware of anything that was happening in the hallway right at that moment.

The goon was deeply shook up. He reached for the door and halfway hid behind it; there was no more anger in his face, just deep, deep fear.

For one fleeting last moment of maintaining some dignity in the middle of the fray, the goon shook his head once more. "Fuck you, man, you're crazy!"

And then he slammed the door the hardest he could, and then came the twisting and jangling of the knob that I knew to be the throwing of the lock. Then all was silent.

I looked over at Jack, and slowly the arm wielding the little blade came down to rest at his side, as though wrought with disappointment. After a moment of just staring at the door, as though waiting for the goon to emerge with a weapon of his own, Jack seemed to come to the conclusion that the goon didn't want to take part in this fight anymore and shrugged his shoulders in disbelief. "What, can't come out to play after all?"

Tutting, and pulling his lips into yet another displeased frown, Jack turned away from the door, squaring his shoulders and looking deeply disappointed, like a kid who's friend wasn't allowed to come outside.

His eyes settled on me.

I was a deer in the headlights. I don't think I even took the time to breathe while it all happened. My hands were clutched in the front folds of my uniform, and while I became conscious of it, my arms didn't seemed to want to follow my instructions to let my dress go. I stood rooted to the ground, even when Jack's eyes were on me and I felt like running and screaming in the opposite direction. My eyes flickered from his face down to the little blade he was still holding in his hand. While I was confidant he wouldn't turn the knife on me, shit, I hadn't exactly been sure he wasn't going to kill the goon just then.

Looking back up at Jack, I noticed he was sucking at the insides of his cheeks again, and he was regarding me casually, as though nothing had happened at all, like it was any other day of him being the scary guest and me being the maid who cleaned his room.

And then...the most frightening part of the entire encounter happened.

Sucking at his cheeks forgotten, Jack pulled that attractive little smile, the one he was steadily getting used to showing me, the one that made my heart skip a beat because it seemed so odd to see on his ruined lips.

And then, with his free hand, he reached over and cuffed my cheek roughly.

I jumped from the contact, and the next thing I knew he was going down the hall, back towards his room in steady, long strides, the knife in his hand dangling at his side. I stared after him, thinking surely that wasn't it. That wasn't all he was going to do, was it?

I stared at his back, at the back of his curly-haired head and the shoulders hunched up, and the toned arms swaying at his sides. My fingers trembled as they lay curled around the fabric of my uniform, and my lips continued to tremble with utter fear and utter disbelief, as I watched him open the door to 310 and disappear inside, slamming the door behind him.

The hallway had gone silent. All I could hear were the heavy, trembling breaths that I soon realized were my own. Swallowing, I was suddenly distracted by the sound of arguing coming from behind 306; obviously the Falcone goon was relaying everything that had happened to the whore who was preoccupied in the bathroom and hadn't seen or heard a thing.

I took a step back, my eyes on 306, and then drifting down the hallway towards 310. The end of the hall seemed to loom on and on forever, like some sort of nightmarish corridor that one could never reach the end of. I took another step back, and then another...

And then I fled, as fast as my legs could carry me, down the hall towards the stairs.

/

I don't remember how I got home that night. It all seemed like such a blur. All I remember was the feeling of Henry's paw tapping against my chin, startling me out of whatever daze I had fallen into. When I snapped out of it, I found that I was sitting on my couch, in front of the TV, with my jacket on, clinging my purse in both hands, and Henry was sitting beside me, giving me this look as if to say what the hell is wrong with you?

When I got up I threw the locks on the door and went to the kitchen and downed a substantial amount of vodka straight from the bottle, as much as I could until my stomach gave an unexpected lurch of warning and I forced myself to stop, gasping as I felt the burn on my throat slide into my empty stomach like liquid fire. Putting the bottle down on the counter, I closed my eyes and dropped down to my knees, soothing the ache in my stomach.

When I opened my eyes, they were blurred with tears, and angrily I wiped them away with the sleeve of my coat, and then chided myself for not taking off my coat so I strode into the living room and tore it off, all but throwing it on the coat hanger by the door. When I turned to go back into the living room, I kicked the armchair so hard that I shrieked with pain, sure that the kick had split one of my toenails, and Henry went galloping off into the bedroom, where I probably wouldn't see him for the rest of the night.

I collapsed down onto the floor, grasping one of the arms of the armchair as I tumbled, like a rag doll, and sat there sobbing like a baby.

What the hell was with me? What was wrong? It was so hard to identify exactly what was so upsetting...or what was more upsetting, rather. The fact that at that very moment, I could have been in 306, recovering from rape...or whatever the hell the goon was going to do to me, was enough to make my stomach give a serious lurch. But even more upsetting was the thought that Jack had pulled a knife on him...pulled a knife on him and threatened him. And what was worse, there was no doubt in my mind that Jack would have done something really, really horrible if the goon hadn't submitted and escaped into 306.

Breathing hard, the tears finally settling, I rubbed my face with my hands. What to do, what to do? Should I go to Estelle and tell her what happened? No, that didn't seem like the best idea...if she didn't want to report a whole stash of child porn being found in one of the rooms, what were the chances that she's report an almost fight between two questionable characters? Jack would never admit to anything, I knew that immediately. And the goon...well, hopefully he'd be gone in the morning.

But I had to tell someone, didn't I? This wasn't the type of thing you just swallowed and smiled and kept your chin up and kept on trucking, no...not when someone was at risk of being raped. Not when someone was at risk of being stabbed. But who was there to tell, and who would listen? Telling anyone that a Falcone goon grabbed me and tried to pull me into his room would probably been met with a What'd you expect? He's a Falcone, what're you doing putting yourself in a situation like that? And telling anyone, especially in the hotel, that Jack had come along, well...

As I settled into a strange calm, I realized that there really wasn't anyone I could tell. There wasn't really anything I could do. The thought crossed my mind about calling in an anonymous tip to the police, like Polly did, but again Jack would never admit to anything and would be far from cooperative...and the goon, well...the police had no real jurisdiction over the Falcone goons, even with Falcone going nuts in the nuthouse.

I sighed heavily. It was too bad the Batman didn't have a hotline.

Feeling utterly alone and defeated and vulnerable and scared, I pulled myself up onto my feet and shuffled slowly into the bedroom, hugging myself so I wouldn't cry anymore. I sat down on my bed and kicked off my shoes, sniffing just a little, and when I looked at my bedside table, I saw the telephone sitting there so neatly and perfectly.

I would have given anything to call my parents, call them and just talk to them, just hear their voices...but I knew I shouldn't. It was late, and probably later in Metropolis by about an hour or two. They'd probably be in bed. No, it wasn't the time to call them, and even if I did, what would I say to them? Recount everything that had happened? No, it'd just make me feel like a baby needing comforting for something that happened in which nothing actually did happen.

I was home, and yes I was shaken, but I was in one piece. I was fine.

Letting out another deep sigh of sadness and loneliness and fear and a whole whirlwind of other strange emotions, I flopped over onto my side and pulled the covers up to my chin, sniffing into my pillow until, somehow, I fell asleep.

/

I felt sick stepping through the door to the Palace the next morning, regarding the lobby and the desk and Martin as if they were all against me, plotting my demise, even when Martin looked up and smiled cheerfully and waved me a good morning. The girls weren't in the break room, luckily, so I was able to hang up my coat and put away my lunch in peace without being accosted with questions about the Batman or about anything that had happened in Gotham recently.

Getting ready to come to work that morning, I was both angry and ashamed to see big purple marks the shape of fat Falcone fingers marring the white skin of my bony arm, and immediately I slathered my cheap foundation makeup all over my arm to try and make it go away. It looked awful, like I dipped half my arm in a bucket of orange paint or something, so I found my gray cardigan and pulled it on, knowing Estelle would probably be pissed. It was a bad start to what was most certainly going to be a very bad day.

I trudged miserably up the stairs to the third floor, where to my immediate surprise I saw that room 301 was open and there were a bunch of boxes sitting outside the door. As I opened the door to the maintenance closet, I assumed that they were the new appliances come to replace the stolen ones. It looked as though someone else had taken the liberty of unpacking the appliances and putting them in the room, saving me from the job, and I was pretty grateful. I was in such a filthy mood that not even the stitched scowl on the Batman doll's face could lift my spirits.

As I loaded up my cart with everything I needed until lunchtime, I pushed the cart out of the maintenance closet and down the hall. Estelle was standing outside 301, with her fists on her sides, supervising some guy in a uniform was taking the boxes into the room. As I came down the hallway, her gazed transfixed on me and she crossed her meaty arms over her chest.

I slowed as I approached her, and nodded in greeting. "Morning, Estelle."

"Morning, Jane." She replied in an indifferent tone, and then nodded towards 301. "Glad to see you got 301 cleaned last night. Looks good."

I blinked at her and felt my features freezing in a frown. I honestly couldn't tell if that was an insult or a compliment. Somehow I had a feeling it was a little of both, but I didn't have the energy or frame of mind to argue, or instigate anything. I merely smiled in return. "Thanks."

She nodded, and then I was convinced that she meant it to be a compliment, and not some snarky comment. "That'll mean one less room for you today, but tomorrow I want you to come in and dust everything."

I nodded. That seemed reasonable, and it was nice knowing that I had one less room to worry about for the day. "Yeah, for sure."

I took her nodding and silence as a cue for me to leave and begin my rounds, but as I slowly began to push the cart, Estelle's eyes suddenly snapped to the Batman doll, sitting snuggly where I used the put the shampoo bottles. Without warning, she reached over and snatched it out of its spot, making me pause rather abruptly.

Estelle looked at the doll as though it were the ugliest thing she'd ever set eyes on, and the fact that she was tossing it between her hands was equally disturbing. She looked at me with a disapproving eye. "Something you found in one of the rooms?"

I opened my mouth to tell her I'd bought it, but the cold look in her eyes shut me up and made me reconsider. Technically I really wasn't supposed to have anything personal on me while I was cleaning, in cause it got stolen, or one of the guests saw it. Estelle claimed that it was unprofessional for maids to keep personal knickknacks around when cleaning the rooms.

"Uh..." I reached behind me to scratch my hair. "Yeah, someone must have left him behind."

"Mmhmm," Estelle mumbled in her throat, and dropped the doll unceremoniously back where she'd picked him up, and then looked back at me, frowning. "Well make sure you dispose of it soon, the last thing we need is a guest exploding because he thinks you support what the Batman's doing. This here's a hotel, not the house of congress."

I nearly scoffed right in her big, round face. I highly doubted any guest walking past my cart would see the Batman doll and give a flying fuck, forget throwing a political fit about vigilantism over a plush toy. I looked away from her, rolling my eyes, and nodded. "Right, I'll get rid of it."

That was all she was going to say, apparently. She looked away from me and went back to supervising the poor delivery man as I continued down the hall, my fist curling around the handle as I pushed the cart.

I looked at the Batman doll, who seemed distressed, having been thrown on his side, so I leaned forward and set him upwards again, so that his arms were out at the side and his face was all mad and unimpressed and staring at me like I was the one who'd been throwing him around. I smiled just a little. Guess I was taking him home tonight...but at least Henry would be delighted to see him. That cat loves plush toys.

I went through 302, 303, and 304 before lunch; they were empty, but I changed the bedsheets and fluffed the pillows, dusted the appliances and checked the towels in the bathrooms. Business was sure to get super slow when the fear gas went up in the air, but this was getting ridiculous. Each room I cleaned seemed lonelier and emptier than the last, as though they hadn't been used in years, like guest rooms in some gigantic mansion. It was depressing, the way the rooms felt, but then I started to worry that maybe it wasn't the rooms that were getting so drab. Maybe it was me.

At lunchtime, I sat in the break room chewing idly at my tunafish sandwich, staring at the gray paint peeling off the walls, thinking about how awful the fluorescent lights looked in this equally awful-looking pathetic little room they called the break room. It felt so artificial and sterile, like working in a dirty hospital. I don't think I'd ever hated working at the Palace more than at that very moment.

After lunch, I smoothed out my skirt and walked past Martin, who was hunched over a huge crossword puzzle. I contemplated asking him if he'd seen the Falcone goon and the hooker leave, but I realized it wasn't necessary, as I was walking up the stairs. The Falcone goon had only booked the room for one night, that's what they did when they brought hookers. He was probably off in some high-class casino lounge, drinking and smoking and trying to drag waitresses back into his car. I'd never see him ever again, not after what Jack had done, but as I swept my hand over my arm I was suddenly reminded of the mark he'd left on me.

And then of course there was Jack, forget about the goon, the goon was long gone, but Jack was still up there, sleeping or snipping away at magazine pages or watching cooking shows. I'd knock on the door and he'd let me in, and he'd probably ignore me as I made the bed and checked the bathroom, and then he'd grin at me as I left, like we shared a private joke. A telltale, knowing smile, attractive but mischievous, as though he knew that I knew I owed him something for, well...saving me from some unexpected fate, but he wouldn't want anything in return. Maybe he just liked knowing that even though he had the meanest-looking scars on his face, and that people called him a freak, he was the one who'd saved the maid from getting raped; he too could play the hero, if he wanted to.

Cleaning 305 came and went way quicker than I would have liked; I was not looking forward at all to going into 306 and being met with whatever mess the goon and hooker left for me to clean up, especially after what happened last night. I took my time pushing the cart down the hall, staring at 306 with a scowl as though the door was being obnoxiously flirtatious. When I parked the cart outside the door, I sighed angrily as I took the master key from my apron pocket and opened 306's door.

As soon as my fingers touched the door knob, something in the back of my mind screamed at me.

I paused, looking down at the doorknob, and opened the door just a crack. The hallway seemed to go completely silent, there was no noise at all, like I was the only one in the entire building. A chill rolled up my spine suddenly, as a smell wafted through the crack in the door, something strong and vile and disturbingly familiar.

A shuddery gasp fluttered past my lips and all of a sudden I felt ice cold. Taking my hand away from the doorknob I took a step back, staring at the door, and then I swallowed tightly. For a moment it seemed as though the smell had disappeared, but then it wafted through the door once more, stronger, more pungent.

I was all alone in the hallway, the hallway that smelled like mildew, dust-bunnies, that hot smell when the lights got too hot, but not blood. The hallway did not smell like blood.

I looked down the hallway towards the stairwell. There was absolutely no one around; I contemplated running downstairs to get Martin, but for some strange reason, I felt the need to go into 306 by myself, curiosity mixing with horror getting the best of me.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I leaned forward and pressed my fingertips just gently against the door, and summing up the last bit of courage I had, I pushed on the door, and slowly it creaked open.

The smell hit me in the face like a wave of warm water, tempting my gag reflex, and I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth to keep from throwing up. But throwing up, at that point, was the least of my worries.

My eyes immediately went to the carpet. Thin ribbons of red rippled the gray carpet leading right up to the bathroom door. Clenching my uniform in my hands, I stepped forward, into the room, my eyes glued to the carpet, my heart in my throat, my mind an absolute blank. It was as if I were possessed, moving forward not of my own free will. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I should have stopped myself from going further, but I couldn't...somehow, I just couldn't.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked around the corner, at the bed against the wall. There lay the hooker, handcuffed to the bedposts, naked, slashed to ribbons, her feet the only part of her body not soaked in drying blood. The goon lay in a pool of his own blood, naked, on the floor in front of the television.

I heard someone screaming. I slammed myself up against the wall; my chest was heaving, my mouth agape, and someone was screaming, screaming all around me, screaming blue, bloody murder.

/