She took out her cell phone, flipped it open, looked at the screen long enough I knew she was reading something, scratched her nose, flipped it shut.
***
I heard the labored ping of the indicator above the elevator door lighting, was having trouble getting my breath from the climb up the stairwell. A moment later, the shush of the door opening, Lecia and the guy stepped out, he in the middle of an impersonation of some dialogue from a film I couldn’t quite remember the name of.
I’d ducked entirely back into the stairwell, counted ten, not able to tell if their voices were getting nearer or were headed down the corridor in the opposite direction, then carefully peeked around.
They were about three quarters of the way down toward the other stairwell. She’d handed him her bag and went through her pockets for the key, laughing, saying she’d thought she’d left it on the counter. There was a friendly sort of pause, the both of the milling, chuckling, and I saw her point at him, finger not touching to his chest, and she said ‘Alright, you can come in, but behave’ and he going on the toes of his feet up down up down, holding up his hands in mock innocence ‘I’ll behave I’ll behave’. And they were saying something else. I heard the word Library just before the door closed.
Involuntarily, I moved a few paces into the corridor, then stopped—just stopped and looked.
I sighed, scratched my forehead, then noticed a few of the rooms had dishes and trays from used room service left out. I kicked at a covered dish, purposefully tipped over a quarter filled glass of wine, then saw that the bottle was still in an ice bucket. When I lifted it, it seemed heavy enough there should be something in it, but it was a dribble, nothing. Setting it down, I saw a rather elaborate, heavy corkscrew, took it up, removed the cork, put the thing in my pocket, gave the cork a little kick, watched it skirt along the carpet, roll to a halt.
I sat on the stairs, head tilted back, eyes closed. The whole thing seemed so shabby, so put together without thought. I wouldn’t—even still—let myself be certain of things. I fabricated some reasonable makeshift for what was going on. She knew the guy. They’d met to study. Something went down, the library closing, something. They were going to go to his place, study a bit more, but he remembered there was a party going on. Spur of the moment, she suggested the hotel, because it would be a drag getting back to her place.
I laughed, nodding, whispered that yes, yes they were in the room studying, working on a paper. They just didn’t go back to his room, because of a party. It was stupid, with her schedule, that she would go home, his place nearer the library or something. She had to be in this area in the morning for something. Something. Something.
I just couldn’t see this being what it looked like, her bothering with all of this for so casual a hump. I was getting beside myself, making her ugly when she wasn’t, painting everything with the colour of my particular feverish misery.
In a swallow, though, I got bitter, thought I was behaving worse than Bertram—the same as Bertram, if nothing else. He at the very least could keep a distance, have some buffer of trust built up, some—however wobbly—sense of confidence in his not seeing things for what things were. He was sitting passed out, drunk, probably getting himself off in moaning tugs about the whole thing. I was sitting in a stairwell, their bodies a little more than speaking three sentences away.
***
The waiting seemed like nothing—like I just kept telling myself Five more minutes, but each time five minutes passed it was like I’d just finally decided to start waiting. Soon it was past one in the morning. Then it was one thirty.
I’d started standing in the corridor, almost to the elevator, leaning to the one wall then the other, hands in my pockets, cigarette in and out of my mouth, in and out of between my fingers—I’d gone so far as to strike the flame of my lighter a few times, watch it go right out.
The loud clack of the bolt and latch of a room door opening stiffened me, I felt my throat constrict, knew it was Lecia’s door. The guy stepped out, letting air out of his cheeks, bare feet, his shirt only buttoned in one place, just getting his belt closed.
I hit the Down button and tilted my head side to side, folded my hands behind my back. When he got next to me, he gave me quick smile. I nodded, could still see what was left of perspiration up his neck, into the wetted bit of disheveled hair at the base of his skull—saw that his shaggy hair was unkempt, though it had been smoothed at least once with his hands and water from the faucet.
-They don’t have snack machines on every floor? he asked, a puff of grin, as though I might be the person who could tell him.
I told him it was ridiculous, that they only had them down in the lobby, said room service might still be going, though.
The elevator opened as he was about to say something else and I patted at my coat pockets, muttered some obscenity, raised my hand like I’d have him hold the elevator a minute, then waved him off and said ‘Sorry, fuck, forgot my’ but stammered the rest as the door closed.
The motor of the elevator kicked in and I immediately turned, reached my one hand into my pocket while I knocked on Lecia’s door with the other. The hand that knocked I used to cover the peep hole while the other withdrew the corkscrew, the tip of that thumb pressing, testing the sharpness, I felt my skin puncture.
Lecia opened the door, naked, the freckles along her shoulder more pronounced from the sated pale of the rest of her skin. She had the question ‘They had one right there?’ out in the instant it took to realize it was me standing there, not whoever he was. I thrust one hand at her to grab her hair, felt it thud against her nose on the way up, felt the tug of her wincing from that blow as a resistance to me forcing her head back and up. Taking four steps into the room I jammed the corkscrew into the tight of her neck, heard the door close as I kept pulling up on her hair against her bucking, pinning her head fast with my cheek to hers, further forcing her head up and back, a gurgle that sounded like the sigh of a running faucet everywhere. I stumbled with her toward the light of the bathroom, got into the room, steadied myself, turned her around, bent her forward so that her head was pressing to the counter at the lips of the basin, pushed down with the hand that had been tugging her hair and tightened relaxed tightened relaxed the arm with the hand and corkscrew still writhing in her.
I caught a look at myself in the mirror, recoiled, let her body go, took a step out of the room while I saw her lurch once, hit her head on the toilet bowl, sort of hiccup her torso in gulps a few times, trying to get her head to stay up, her arm reaching to grip the top of the toilet tank before the arm failed, slurping to the towel folded on the floor, hand depressing the flush of the toilet at it moved passed.
***
My jaw wouldn’t stop chattering—the endless titter of a squirrel, the click of a cat’s mouth, staring at a bird outside a window. I was wheezing while I did it, both through my nose and through my mouth. I briefly tried to hold my breath, but felt dizzy from even a moment of the effort, coughed, jaw chattering, bit my tongue every few seconds, had to swallow in sharp juts of neck forward, up, side to side, make the gathering saliva bubble, slosh, trick it down my gullet.
There was a large splotch of Lecia’s blood to the carpet, some evidence of it elsewhere—everywhere, more and more each time I looked.
I doused every light except the one mounted above the bed, took the bedcovers and left them draped over the spill on the floor, turned open the shower, clicked the switch for the ceiling fan, left the bathroom door an inch or two ajar and then reassessed the room.
The corkscrew wasn’t in my hand, so I glanced around, my left elbow refusing to bend, a spasm to it like blood was caught in the veins just there, bucking and bracing, scratching to get past.
I’d no idea what I could do, backed up into the little closet area just inside the door, up against the wall that shared the door, at the very least concealed. I could creep out the moment the guy entered,
get to the stairwell, down to the next floor, dash down the corridor, down again, there would be a side door, I could run.
I couldn’t. I gripped my hand to my mouth to try to keep it from it’s shivering. I felt the shudder, so hard I couldn’t grip it still, it pulsed against my rigid fingers. My wheezing was muffled, though, and with the racket in the bathroom I felt sort of nonexistent.
I reached a hand out and grabbed the iron off of its little stand above the hanging board, held it against my chest, no idea if I’d be able to move, again.
The guy had trouble getting the key to unlock the door—I heard him laugh, curse, heard the crinkle of wrappers as he tried to balance whatever he had bought in the crook of one arm. He walked into the room without pausing, stopped what he was saying when he noted the sound of the shower, tossed what he’d bought onto the bed, undid his belt and let his pants fall.
I felt my clamped mouth was flooded so much with saliva the sensation was something more like I was smothering an animal in there, felling it roll and roll as it eventually gave up.
He took up her panties from the bed, wiped at his penis with them, tossed them gingerly on the pillow and began taking his shirt off, lifting it over his head.
I brought the iron down as best as I could manage at an angle into the side of his neck. He squealed and stumbled a few steps one way then, in an instant, dropped to one knee and I delivered another blow to the opposite side of his neck. Dropping the iron, I slammed my knee into his face as it turned, then I charged, knocking him onto his back, clambered onto him, pulling his hair so I could get my knee sharp onto his throat. His thrashing only lasted a moment before I got up, grabbed the iron and brought the back corner of it down into his forehead, into his chest, into his chest again, a last drive of it gouging open his cheek.
I looked down at him, noticed that one of blows to the chest had left a dull, blunt puncture, blood glutting up from it—his breathing was shallow, nothing that could nourish him.
I was on my knees, straddling one of his legs, a long strand of my drool seeping down onto his leg, slipping around the back of his knee, soaking into the fabric of my pants and into the carpet.
***
Pacing, a simpleton little patter of my feet in a short circle in the little closet area, trying to focus, get an idea of how much time had passed since I’d burst into the room. How much time between killing Lecia and killing this guy? What time had it been to begin with? I seemed to think one, but that didn’t seem right.
The first thought to snap me to attention was like a scratch to my eyes, swallowing something too hot: Had any of Lecia’s blood gone out into the corridor?
There was blood on the inside of the door, on the wall, a fist of it and then taps all the way up into the ceiling corner. I had difficulty physically getting only one eye or the other to close so that I could look out the peephole. When I did, it didn’t matter—the angle, the warp, the washed out haze of the corridor light—I couldn’t make out anything.
My fingers rested on the door knob, but I found the door wasn’t locked, bolted, or latched and I fumbled, getting it closed as completely as possible. I found myself whispering It’s locked, it needs the key card to open it, even without the chain done.
A kick of relaxation came over me. If there was blood, any noticeable blood, the guy would have reacted to it, he would have taken pause it, every reason to be concerned—he’d have seen something, standing out there, fiddling with the food, the keys, the soda.
One breath in, one breath out, it became a different thing.
The guy had noticed, wondered what could have happened, got the door open but heard the shower going. The guy could’ve been thinking to ask Why’s there blood outside? as soon as he stood behind her, under the flowing water.
I unlatched the door, opened it, peeked out, didn’t see anything, stepped out one leg and made more of an examination. A little line of bloodspots, right across the way, up toward the light.
I went numb, reclosed the door. My jaw was no longer shuddering, but my tongue kept flitting out to wet my lips, run side to side, wet my lips, run side to side.
That blood was the most important to get rid of, straight away. I took off all of my clothes, scanned around for a towel, didn’t even want to think about it when I saw the guy’s body right where it’d expired, oozing. The guy was something I’d deal with when I had to—something needed to take priority and the blood outside the room seemed the greatest threat.
In the bathroom, I didn’t look over to see Lecia, but her blood was all over the counter. Her blood was everywhere. It was getting on me while I reached for a towel, another, ran the faucet, wetted one towel sopping and roughed the cake of soap into it until it was thick with froth. I reached for a third towel, a larger one, examined both sides to see it was in good shape, then got to the door.
-It doesn’t matter if you do this or you don’t do this, I said—not really aloud, not really in my head—then opened the door, set the large towel on the corridor carpet, set one of my shoes to hold the door open, reached up with the soapy towel and scrubbed as quietly as I could, used the dry towel, patting it gently, the mess vanishing except for the temporary residue of the cleaning.
Sniffling odd breaths, duck quacks, I slipped back into the room, head to the inside of the door, trembling, absolutely no idea if I’d accomplished anything.
***
I turned off all of the lights except for the television’s stuttering crags of bright and dark, spasms that didn’t illuminate anything, sat on the ground, back against the room door, reached through my coat pockets for my cell phone.
It was nearly three o’clock.
Nothing was going to happen, nobody was coming to get me.
I nodded, thinking this, repeated thinking it, closed my eyes.
When I opened them, I stood up, rickety calm, a foreign sensation to my weight. I went to undo the chain and the latch, but I’d not reclosed them. I chuckled, the sound of it like a word—like hearing word Chuckle—and a very uncomfortable few moments passed, my mind squirming with this sensation, afraid to make another sound, afraid I’d just hear the word instead. I let a long breath down my nose, coughed, both sounding normal, opened the door, casually, and looked across at the wall.
No sign of the blood.
I glanced around, looking for any other splots, thought perhaps an odd dark of the carpet was something, but even if it was, it was the sort of thing no one would stop to examine, wouldn’t see it unless they were looking for it.
I took up the clothes the guy had removed, pinched each garment between forefinger and thumb, set them inside one of the bureau drawers to be certain they’d not become sullied.
As soon as I saw the bottle of soda, the cookies, I reached for them, downed a long gasp of the soda, tore the package to the cookies, ate three, each in my mouth all at once, a few rough chews, a swallow, the next shoved in. By the time I opened the second package, the soda was gone and I’d stood, knew I’d have to move the guy’s body into the bathroom with Lecia, but used the time eating as a final respite.
His body was already halfway on the comforter I’d used to cover the larger spill of Lecia’s blood, so I wrapped the rest of it’s length around him, tucked it underneath of him, tried to make the closure as tight as I could but had difficulty getting his body to rock back and forth, left the swaddle part way undone. It wasn’t a long way to the bathroom, so I was relived—had it been longer, the blanket would’ve come out from under him, it inched out and out and out each time I had to give a new tug, one slow fluid movement just didn’t work.
My feet sludged into Lecia’s blood, causing me to involuntarily glance down—saw her calf, her foot, an odd twist to them, my eyes continuing on to the rest of her corpse. She was awkwardly propped up against the side of the tub, head flopped all the way back over her shoulders, her torso slathered in a long tongue of drying blood, a look to
it like a wet sponge, and a clag had dried over her face, as well, matted into a rough of mud up her nostrils.
She hadn’t been dead when she’d fallen. She hadn’t. This wasn’t how I’d left her.
The growing awareness of this didn’t seem to elicit a specific reaction from me, I just looked at her body—hideous, flopped like a sodden mop head—and knew she’d been alive, had squiggled and moaned a bit. I’d no idea exactly what she’d been trying to do. Crawl away? Hide in the tub? Just stand up to look at herself, to see if really she might not be dead?
I said something, looking at her, but in the next moment, turned away, quickly averting my eyes from the scab of my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t think what it’d been.
***
Four o’clock seemed sudden, the numbers on my cellphone like a tooth falling out. I parted the curtain to have a look outside—the street was barren, parked cars frozen, only every other streetlight on.
I padded my feet on the two towels I’d set over the damp of blood where the guy had died, they’d soaked through quickly, the bottoms of my feet sticky, dry feeling from the filth. I took the pillow cases off of the pillows, peeled the towels up, set the pillowcases on the spot, reset the towels.
I didn’t want to worry about cleaning the tile floor of the bathroom, knew the bodies were going to be found, knew it was just a matter of time—the morning, new business day, housekeeping—but did check to be certain none had seeped over to a floor vent or anyplace that might leak down to the room below.
Lecia’s body was underneath of the guy’s, the blanket on top of both of them. I wanted to take down the shower curtain, wrap them up, but it seemed pointless, I didn’t even really know why the idea was so insistent in my thoughts—it wouldn’t serve a purpose, was just an idea that groaned like a bruise behind my eye.