wreath
Mohinder gripped the phone, trying to hold off the tears which he had not yet allowed to come. “You don’t understand, it has to be room 23.” He rubbed his forehead as the hotel receptionist chattered about dates and conferences. “Listen, I don’t care when the reservation is for, but it has to be that room. Yes, the 12th is fine, I’ll see you then.”
Two weeks later Mohinder pulled into the motel car park and sat, looking at the box on the passenger seat. He reminded himself why he was there, not mourning a killer, but a time in his life which was full of passion and possibility. He recalled the way his stomach had flipped when he had heard a knock at the motel room door, and the smell of Zane’s cologne as he had entered the room. He thought of how surprisingly soft Zane’s hair had been, and the change in the tone of his voice at the height of their lovemaking. Mohinder grabbed the box and got out of the car, knowing that if he didn’t do this now he never would.
After collecting the key he approached room 23, holding the box before him like a barrier. The tears still hadn’t come, but he expected them. After five minutes he took a deep breath and opened the door. It was the smell of the room which hit him first. The woody, slightly musty scent was everywhere, he felt it sinking into his clothes, destined to haunt him. He closed the door behind him and stood at the foot of the bed.
He was terrified to go through with the plan, in case it made no difference. In case he woke tomorrow with the sick, empty feeling that he had had since he had heard the news. “He’s dead.” They had told him. And suddenly Mohinder had missed him horribly. He had craved the sight of him, the sound of his voice. He knew it was a waste of time to ask to see a body, it would be in the incinerator by now. No grave, no marker, nowhere to mourn.
Mohinder opened the box, and took out the wreath. It was pointless, he knew. He would leave it here and the cleaner would throw it in the trash when she cleaned the room. He wished there had been somewhere else. A lake, or a wood. Anywhere that he could call theirs. As it was there was just this motel room.
He placed the wreath on the left hand side pillow and waited for the tears to come. It took a few seconds before he realised his cheeks were wet, and a few more before his legs buckled and he sank to his knees, crying into the bed. Mohinder stroked the ribbed blanket as his shoulders shook.
When the sound came Mohinder thought he was dreaming. The last thing he remembered was kneeling next to the bed, but the room was now dark and he was lying on top of the blankets, twisting them in his hands while the wreath lay next to him. The knocking continued and Mohinder ignored it for a while until it became louder and more insistent. Finally he pushed himself up, angry at being pulled from his misery before time. He pulled the door open, ready to let whoever was behind it see the dried tears on his face and know that he shouldn’t have been disturbed.
Before he could engage his hatred, his shock or his cynicism, Mohinder had his arms around Sylar, sobbing hard into his shoulder. “Hello Mohinder,” he said as he returned the embrace. “Surprise.”
Two weeks later Mohinder pulled into the motel car park and sat, looking at the box on the passenger seat. He reminded himself why he was there, not mourning a killer, but a time in his life which was full of passion and possibility. He recalled the way his stomach had flipped when he had heard a knock at the motel room door, and the smell of Zane’s cologne as he had entered the room. He thought of how surprisingly soft Zane’s hair had been, and the change in the tone of his voice at the height of their lovemaking. Mohinder grabbed the box and got out of the car, knowing that if he didn’t do this now he never would.
After collecting the key he approached room 23, holding the box before him like a barrier. The tears still hadn’t come, but he expected them. After five minutes he took a deep breath and opened the door. It was the smell of the room which hit him first. The woody, slightly musty scent was everywhere, he felt it sinking into his clothes, destined to haunt him. He closed the door behind him and stood at the foot of the bed.
He was terrified to go through with the plan, in case it made no difference. In case he woke tomorrow with the sick, empty feeling that he had had since he had heard the news. “He’s dead.” They had told him. And suddenly Mohinder had missed him horribly. He had craved the sight of him, the sound of his voice. He knew it was a waste of time to ask to see a body, it would be in the incinerator by now. No grave, no marker, nowhere to mourn.
Mohinder opened the box, and took out the wreath. It was pointless, he knew. He would leave it here and the cleaner would throw it in the trash when she cleaned the room. He wished there had been somewhere else. A lake, or a wood. Anywhere that he could call theirs. As it was there was just this motel room.
He placed the wreath on the left hand side pillow and waited for the tears to come. It took a few seconds before he realised his cheeks were wet, and a few more before his legs buckled and he sank to his knees, crying into the bed. Mohinder stroked the ribbed blanket as his shoulders shook.
When the sound came Mohinder thought he was dreaming. The last thing he remembered was kneeling next to the bed, but the room was now dark and he was lying on top of the blankets, twisting them in his hands while the wreath lay next to him. The knocking continued and Mohinder ignored it for a while until it became louder and more insistent. Finally he pushed himself up, angry at being pulled from his misery before time. He pulled the door open, ready to let whoever was behind it see the dried tears on his face and know that he shouldn’t have been disturbed.
Before he could engage his hatred, his shock or his cynicism, Mohinder had his arms around Sylar, sobbing hard into his shoulder. “Hello Mohinder,” he said as he returned the embrace. “Surprise.”