At a quarter after three, Clarice pulled into the parking lot of the White
Timber motel. As she neared the Baltimore city limits, exhaustion had hit
her like a sixteen ton freighter. The neon sign above reflected blue on the
hood of the mustang, proclaiming VA ANCY in crackling electric letters.
The clerk inside was young, perhaps in his early twenties. It took Clarice several tries to effectively tear his attention away from the old 9-inch black and white he was watching. He stared blankly at her for a moment, lips parted slightly, stupored by the interruption.
"I'd like a room," Clairce said, and her voice seemed harsh and out of place in the low quiet of the office. The boy shook his head to clear his vision. His voice was soft and almost feminine when he finally answered.
"How many nights?"
"Just one. A single, please." Clarice answered, reaching to dig her wallet out of her jacket. The boy nodded and fumbled around beneath the desk for a few seconds before producing a small, tarnished brass key attached to a red plastic tree-shaped chain.
"Forty bucks even. Number six. Wanna wakeup call?" He droned, his attention already travelling back to the television. Clarice shook her head, and then realizing the gesture would be lost, replied with -
"No, thank you." She slapped two twenty dollar bills down on the table and pocketed the key. The clerk nodded absently, his hard, angular face lit by the silver glow of the television.
The motel room was small and ugly, with three inch thick yellow carpet and a horrible clashing green comforter. The smell of mold and cheap air freshener hung like a soupy fog, but Clarice was so tired that she could hardly care. Collapsing on the hard-springed bed with a groan, her eyes itchy with exhaustion, she had barely enough energy to shed her jacket and was asleep before her second shoe hit the floor.
...*...
"You'll be fine, Honey. Grandpa will take good care of you."
"Mamma, I-"
"We'll be back on Sunday morning. You'll hardly know we were gone."
Smoke and darkness. Raspy air laced with the mist of a timeworn gasper, phlegm and blood rattling in his lungs. The room, painted yellow, with photocopied prints of the Holy Mother nailed ( frameless ) to the walls. Everything was tall, shadowed and still. Six year old Cora was dwarfed by the respirator machine, its archaic dial glowing a dim, evil orange. She hovered near the bed, trembling and tiny.
"C'mere, Red. I wanna tell you something." His voice lingered on the edge of a whisper, the last words drowned by the acordian pump of the venhilator.
"I donwanna." the child replied, twisting the hem of her plaid jumper in her hot, chubby hands. The breathing machince groaned like a great metal monster, its long, twisty snout attatched to a cup over Grandpa's mouth.
"Remember what happened to Ticky?"
Ticky was a small black kitten Cora had gotten for her birthday. The last time she said no to Grandpa, she had found Ticky in the closet with her head turned around backwards.
"Yeth." She lisped, shaking harder.
"Remember..." A long, labored pause, in which the monster growled and seethed and pumped more flat air into Grandpa's lungs. "Remember what I said?"
"Uh-huh."
"Do you want to be like Ticky, Cora?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Then come here. That's it. Climb up here." Pause. "Closer. Closer. Good." Pause. "Good Girl. Good. Yes."
Pause. A wretching, hateful pain.
She screamed.
...*...
Cora woke up keening, her twenty two ( twenty three in eight days ) year old body wracked with traitorous sobs. She pitched forward in the bed, her insides twisted and clenching. Cleo, who would never suffer the same dreadful fate as Ticky, found herself crushed to a grown woman's chest and rocked like a child.
... * ...
The clerk inside was young, perhaps in his early twenties. It took Clarice several tries to effectively tear his attention away from the old 9-inch black and white he was watching. He stared blankly at her for a moment, lips parted slightly, stupored by the interruption.
"I'd like a room," Clairce said, and her voice seemed harsh and out of place in the low quiet of the office. The boy shook his head to clear his vision. His voice was soft and almost feminine when he finally answered.
"How many nights?"
"Just one. A single, please." Clarice answered, reaching to dig her wallet out of her jacket. The boy nodded and fumbled around beneath the desk for a few seconds before producing a small, tarnished brass key attached to a red plastic tree-shaped chain.
"Forty bucks even. Number six. Wanna wakeup call?" He droned, his attention already travelling back to the television. Clarice shook her head, and then realizing the gesture would be lost, replied with -
"No, thank you." She slapped two twenty dollar bills down on the table and pocketed the key. The clerk nodded absently, his hard, angular face lit by the silver glow of the television.
The motel room was small and ugly, with three inch thick yellow carpet and a horrible clashing green comforter. The smell of mold and cheap air freshener hung like a soupy fog, but Clarice was so tired that she could hardly care. Collapsing on the hard-springed bed with a groan, her eyes itchy with exhaustion, she had barely enough energy to shed her jacket and was asleep before her second shoe hit the floor.
...*...
"You'll be fine, Honey. Grandpa will take good care of you."
"Mamma, I-"
"We'll be back on Sunday morning. You'll hardly know we were gone."
Smoke and darkness. Raspy air laced with the mist of a timeworn gasper, phlegm and blood rattling in his lungs. The room, painted yellow, with photocopied prints of the Holy Mother nailed ( frameless ) to the walls. Everything was tall, shadowed and still. Six year old Cora was dwarfed by the respirator machine, its archaic dial glowing a dim, evil orange. She hovered near the bed, trembling and tiny.
"C'mere, Red. I wanna tell you something." His voice lingered on the edge of a whisper, the last words drowned by the acordian pump of the venhilator.
"I donwanna." the child replied, twisting the hem of her plaid jumper in her hot, chubby hands. The breathing machince groaned like a great metal monster, its long, twisty snout attatched to a cup over Grandpa's mouth.
"Remember what happened to Ticky?"
Ticky was a small black kitten Cora had gotten for her birthday. The last time she said no to Grandpa, she had found Ticky in the closet with her head turned around backwards.
"Yeth." She lisped, shaking harder.
"Remember..." A long, labored pause, in which the monster growled and seethed and pumped more flat air into Grandpa's lungs. "Remember what I said?"
"Uh-huh."
"Do you want to be like Ticky, Cora?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Then come here. That's it. Climb up here." Pause. "Closer. Closer. Good." Pause. "Good Girl. Good. Yes."
Pause. A wretching, hateful pain.
She screamed.
...*...
Cora woke up keening, her twenty two ( twenty three in eight days ) year old body wracked with traitorous sobs. She pitched forward in the bed, her insides twisted and clenching. Cleo, who would never suffer the same dreadful fate as Ticky, found herself crushed to a grown woman's chest and rocked like a child.
... * ...