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Cauchemar
by jmiland1 Wed Apr 15, 2009 11:15 pm
It’s been easy—some nagging part of his mind suggests it’s too easy, but Martin quashes it whenever it tries to get a word in edgewise—to sneak around the motel to feed. It’s not like the night manager is awake, half the time, and if he is it’s easy enough for Martin to change that with his Lordly words. Then he can take the keys from behind the counter and creep down the halls, looking for food.
Honestly, it isn’t a great place for a mortal to stay. Martin even manages to feel a little bad for most of them, but that usually doesn’t last long; sooner or later, he is reminded of what an indignity it is that he is staying here, and all sympathy goes out the window.
Still, there are nights when he feels troubled. Not so much when he comes across a john, passed out on a bed amidst a confetti of used condoms, the room smelling of sex, and his wallet almost invariably missing. These aren’t men he feels bad about, and why would he? He merely takes a bit from them; they’ll never notice.
But more than once, tonight as an example, he’s crept into a room (at least maintenance here is constant enough that the doors open smoothly and don’t creak) and found a mother curled on the floor, a child—or two, or three—tucked into the bed. Women running away from something, no doubt, but it doesn’t take a social worker to know that they aren’t going to get away for long. Tonight, he’s in one of his better moods, so he tucks some crumpled twenties into the pocket of the mother’s jeans, lying on the floor, before biting into her wrist. She moans, and rolls onto her back, but does not wake.
He doesn’t mind losing the money. More will come. And he considers it adequate payment for the life he’s taking from her.
And her children.
The children are so sweet.
Honestly, it isn’t a great place for a mortal to stay. Martin even manages to feel a little bad for most of them, but that usually doesn’t last long; sooner or later, he is reminded of what an indignity it is that he is staying here, and all sympathy goes out the window.
Still, there are nights when he feels troubled. Not so much when he comes across a john, passed out on a bed amidst a confetti of used condoms, the room smelling of sex, and his wallet almost invariably missing. These aren’t men he feels bad about, and why would he? He merely takes a bit from them; they’ll never notice.
But more than once, tonight as an example, he’s crept into a room (at least maintenance here is constant enough that the doors open smoothly and don’t creak) and found a mother curled on the floor, a child—or two, or three—tucked into the bed. Women running away from something, no doubt, but it doesn’t take a social worker to know that they aren’t going to get away for long. Tonight, he’s in one of his better moods, so he tucks some crumpled twenties into the pocket of the mother’s jeans, lying on the floor, before biting into her wrist. She moans, and rolls onto her back, but does not wake.
He doesn’t mind losing the money. More will come. And he considers it adequate payment for the life he’s taking from her.
And her children.
The children are so sweet.
jmiland1
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