OOM (of sorts)
Room 2754 is not, as predicted, on the second floor. Nor is it on the twenty-seventh. Or any number that might make sense, in any particular order.
Room 2754 is up four flights of stairs from the bar, settled between two other doors which definitely are not either 2753 or 2755.
A small thing, a tiny observation of randomness and disorder. And after four flights of stairs, Rachel is still a little cranky about it. The key is inserted and turned and the door yanked open with slightly more force than necessary.
The room is hardly special. Like some of the nicer hotels she's stayed in before, a decently sized kitchen to the left, a small living area with a TV to the right. Rachel barely glances at these things before stepping forward, letting the door swing shut behind her. Her attention is caught on the large double-doors straight ahead of her, the ones that lead out to a sizable balcony. Not appreciative or amazed, but suddenly very curious. Not every hotel room comes with balcony doors fifteen feet high and eight feet across.
She pauses at the end of the couch, still a good distance from the doors, and frowns. A thought's just occurred to her and she turns to eye the distance from the back of the couch to the edge of the kitchen bar. There's a walkway from the front door to the balcony that also equals about eight feet, a pleasantly high ceiling without feeling too lofty.
Not a lot of hotel rooms could accommodate an African elephant if it felt like strolling through the living room. Rachel is suddenly very aware that this one could, if it needed to.
The bedroom is a bedroom. Queen sized bed, standard hotel comforter pattern, two pillows. The headboard is padded, not those wooden ones that look like they were built in the 70s and the manager was too cheap to update. The bathroom is a bathroom - complete with individually wrapped soaps, tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
The closet has clothes already in it, which doesn't make much of an appeal to Rachel at first. Not until she inspects them with close scrutiny. But they're decent enough, even if the lack of tags means she can't check the brand.
It's not quite a smile, but it's the closest she's been to one in a while.
Downstairs is a bar, filled with people, some human and some not. All with pasts that are apparently different from hers, no knowledge of the war or the invasion or any of it. No idea what she's been through or why. No clue what's happened, what she left behind.
Who.
There are shoes in the closet, too, but she leaves them. In jeans and a t-shirt, she pads back through the leaving room, pulls open one of the massive balcony doors and steps out. The wind, the sunshine, the 200-foot Daisy, the lake, the trees...
I wanted to live.
Maybe she should have been more specific.
Room 2754 is up four flights of stairs from the bar, settled between two other doors which definitely are not either 2753 or 2755.
A small thing, a tiny observation of randomness and disorder. And after four flights of stairs, Rachel is still a little cranky about it. The key is inserted and turned and the door yanked open with slightly more force than necessary.
The room is hardly special. Like some of the nicer hotels she's stayed in before, a decently sized kitchen to the left, a small living area with a TV to the right. Rachel barely glances at these things before stepping forward, letting the door swing shut behind her. Her attention is caught on the large double-doors straight ahead of her, the ones that lead out to a sizable balcony. Not appreciative or amazed, but suddenly very curious. Not every hotel room comes with balcony doors fifteen feet high and eight feet across.
She pauses at the end of the couch, still a good distance from the doors, and frowns. A thought's just occurred to her and she turns to eye the distance from the back of the couch to the edge of the kitchen bar. There's a walkway from the front door to the balcony that also equals about eight feet, a pleasantly high ceiling without feeling too lofty.
Not a lot of hotel rooms could accommodate an African elephant if it felt like strolling through the living room. Rachel is suddenly very aware that this one could, if it needed to.
The bedroom is a bedroom. Queen sized bed, standard hotel comforter pattern, two pillows. The headboard is padded, not those wooden ones that look like they were built in the 70s and the manager was too cheap to update. The bathroom is a bathroom - complete with individually wrapped soaps, tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
The closet has clothes already in it, which doesn't make much of an appeal to Rachel at first. Not until she inspects them with close scrutiny. But they're decent enough, even if the lack of tags means she can't check the brand.
It's not quite a smile, but it's the closest she's been to one in a while.
Downstairs is a bar, filled with people, some human and some not. All with pasts that are apparently different from hers, no knowledge of the war or the invasion or any of it. No idea what she's been through or why. No clue what's happened, what she left behind.
Who.
There are shoes in the closet, too, but she leaves them. In jeans and a t-shirt, she pads back through the leaving room, pulls open one of the massive balcony doors and steps out. The wind, the sunshine, the 200-foot Daisy, the lake, the trees...
I wanted to live.
Maybe she should have been more specific.