Pink Nightmares pt. 2

Puppy Without a Master

The 9 hotel sits in the middle of the city. Red light district, but brake lights from a car red. Cars sit still in idle, no emergency lights flashing. Bodies come and go throughout the hotel on the conveyor belts of broken dreams. No SOS symbol. Not a soul to tell you to turn on back now. Instincts tell you to turn away, run rabbit run. It feels wrong to stand there watching it. The hotel takes hold of your brain becoming its host. In a trance state, it moves your limbs out of control. Mystery and wonder become another product of your demise.

Backlit behind grey stormy skies its sight swelters over the skin, raw. A scent, this familiar stain reminding you of the past. An electrifying eel slithers into your brain holes. Neuro-eel transmitters. Memories of old book smell, damp pages, burnt out from a traveler's fire. You'll stand outside, it's not an invitation. Some kind of weird left in a moldy room feeling. As you walk, you see that otherworldly gaze, the building with eyes judges you. Never quite grasping what it wants in the first place. An enigma left unsaid. 

Emptiness of the street held a different mode of dissonance, lurking. On the outside, it appeared busy and functioning, the hotel's edge existing beneath the veil light. Cells at the entrance follow her, particles slab at the mouth and mutate, a brand new dystopia, evolutionary death. Shutters close her eyes by rainfall, and Amata smiles. Lip bitten, a little bruising to replace the tightness in her throat. 

When you know, you fucking know. The feeling of no return is palatable, almost gnawing. Just rips through every part of your fears and washes them away. Injected acceptance mainlined right through your veins. She had to acknowledge this type of obscure warmth. It reminded her of the homeland with traces of uncertainty that followed. Amata is in her element, the unknown like a drug pulls her in. Invisible tethers climb onto her body wiggling into the hardest of hearts. Mine, it says. Mine, now, and mine forever. 

Will this be home? 

She blows out cold air, it feels like smoke. Eyes of the people she's loved, killed, fucked sing to her through fragmentary thoughts. They mock her for how far she's come. Laughter, an ego’s kiss, somewhat sweet and sour. It's just enough to be painful, acidic. Deep in the innards of her organs, she tastes the iron and rotten meat juices. Decayed remnants linger in her gums. Swish and spit, but the taste she wants to expel remains. Nobody wins when you have these kind of memories. 

Swept up in the dreams of her past, she watches the light posts shudder overhead. The old version says to go home. The new version says to go inside. Tami's bright olive skin shines against a tarot card in the symbol of Mother Mary in her mind. She's not even fucking Catholic. Tami is a goddess. Tami is forever. Tami is the be all end all of her existence.

Will this be forever? 

High deco art ceilings and their hypnotic naked decadence suck out my engine full of hot air. From behind my dirty mop bucket dress slinks pools of grimy water. As predetermined from the dystopian writings on the wall, the lobby was void of life. 

From the left down a few steps, there's a tall thin concierge standing near the fireplace. Gasping, he unfortunately notices you. Firm brows and badly drawn pencil mustache. His eyes widened slowly to horror. What a fucking mess. This venomous stare. A familiar embrace of aristocracy. Tall as a pillar, the man meets me outside of the desk. Lips furrowed about to speak in protest, our elegant beaks moved in slow motion to raise the volume. 

"You-"

"Oh, thank the heavens this place is still open. I couldn't tell by the signs if it was..." I slam my fingers, wet onto the desk with the hope to wither it. Part of the window is open where the registry lies. He jumps back as if he's seen a ghost. 

"We're all booked for the next month. And besides, you'll have to pay for the rugs that you just destroyed walking in here." 

"Mmmm." I look down at the rugs and the dirty muck I created and I'm lavished by the mess. Clearly, a place that holds The Yellow Room wouldn't care about dirty water. From the looks of the place, they’re not struggling to keep the lights on. Circulation is out in the open. Great for parties, harlots, and drugs. I want all of their secrets. 

My eyes look back at his to assert dominance. That outdated pinstripe three piece suit tells me the last time he shopped was in a vintage store or an inheritance from a dead relative. His fair long fingers show that someone else does his bidding for him. What a hapless man. "Are you now? I am expecting someone and I have walked around the city trying to find THIS place. So, you're assuming that I wasn't invited?" 

He's about to speak and I press my finger on his lips. "No. Bad puppy." I turn behind me and the lobby is empty which seems less than ideal. My finger is still pressed on his lips when I turn back to stare at his eyes. "I am here to secretly meet my girlfriend. It's a surprise. Don't you hate it when people ruin surprises?"

Lips move as if he's about to hiss. I can feel the tension from his jawbone mechanically trying to break free from my grasp. Seductively, I pull my finger away and then grab his face, returning my claws to his chin. 

"S-S-Surprises?" He blurts out with spit and tries to readjust his mouth.

Gravity fights each against other. Attempts to wrench from my grip. Smells of Myasthenia weakness. Behind his eyes, you'll imagine his stride exerting itself around the hotel. A shift in his expressions drift from his paper mouth. Proper fucked. Airs not burning right. There's an oily substance residue permanently on his skin. He doesn't feel real. Admitting defeat, his eyes shift, again. What's that fucking look? Temporal vastness, his recipe paradox, the secret. 

My appetite for torture is for these types of men. The patriarchy has faces for arrogant men who wish to be in control. Bottom feeders with secrets. They’re not quite on the top, but they’re a nuisance. One could only help but wonder if his despicable personality flaws were a known understanding or if he lacked self-awareness by the look in his eyes. His voice is so irritating, a dirty little rat without a master. Does he want a new master? I won’t string him along too long. 

A sweet smile crept onto my lips, a lie. My fingers pull away from his jaw. Nails gliding on his pristine skin feeling the fairness. It's untouched virginity. He wipes his jaw where I imagined he felt I planted a disease for him. "Yes, puppy, surprises."

My eyes light up, and I plop the bag down on the concierge desk. Inside the nearest pocket is 5,000 dollars all in 100 bills. I slam the money down over his registry. The man’s eyebrows raise at my drama and the loudness of the bag. He doesn’t know about my special hammer. Hard cash changes people, they don’t ask questions when they’re handed gifts. 

Curling the bills in my hands counting, "You see, I am meeting my girlfriend Moira here. It’s her birthday today and I promised her that we would see each other. I need a room that she will least expect. I am thinking of a suite, a sweetheart room."

His face somewhat relaxes as if he knows the name. He looks now unimpressed by the name itself. The man slides into the side entrance behind the window glass and bars. "Moira hasn't mentioned you..." No, and she doesn’t even know that I am here. Surprises for everyone. 

I glide the money closer to the registry, my wet hands staining the ink and making it dribble. Names glide off the page. He's going to have to fix that. He will be stuck here for a while. Such a shame. "Amata. But, puppy. You can't tell her that I'm here. It is a surprise. I suppose though...this five thousand dollars... doesn't equate..." My voice breaks at the end as if my treasured animal just died. Aristocrats are all for that proper drama. Seen it in film. The man seems the type to fall for it. He’ll soon learn this was an error. 

I grab the money and his parallel hands grab the other side. Ears perked up at the sadness in my voice and shook his head. Letting out a long sigh, he signs the deal with his error. Back and forth, we whimper and sigh. His hands are now gripped at the cash halfway and I tug, letting it fall into his hands. I kept the paper from the bank. It’s all rolled and organized. This creates the air that I am someone else, and not a cheap stripper. From the looks of his expression, he has nothing to do with The Yellow Room’s bidding and owning the club. BlueJay may have been wrong about that part, but 5,000 is reasonable for a corpse. 

"What does the surprise entail for Moira?"

Brushing my hand on my chest, "Oh, puppy I never knew you could be SO devious." My finger on the middle zipper slides out a pink dildo, it flops between my hands and I slam it on the desk as loud as I can. "Isn't it just gorgeous? It goes right inside her. Do you want to watch?"

His face is flushed and turns red. Eyes begin to dart across the room and he whispers low, "This isn't a brothel. You can remove the dildo from my desk, Miss Amata."

Still smiling, I rip the suction end from the desk and throw it back into my bag. My wet skin dripped over the desk. Water saturating the prestigious wooden surface. Tilting my chest, I lean close enough to the glass leaving behind breath marks over it. “The key?”

Underneath the desk, he uses a key to pull out a skeleton key that has no fob. The key looks like the collection of skeleton keys you can find on the streets of Paris. Possibly at the black market or a collection of stores. It’s an old key, the metal is starting to wear on it. It is embellished with strange moss formations over it. Wonder if it still works. Holding the key in my hands, I caress the texture. It has sharp edges on it, and it could be used as a weapon in the right circumstances.

 "Room 339, and my name is Mr. Pinch. I will let Moira know her girlfriend is waiting for her before her shift." 

There’s a cold air in the lobby, and I slip the key between my tits. Moving my tongue along my lips tasting the water, I let out a fake laugh. Placing my fingers over the glass, I tap it a few times. "She's going to do so much more for you after this. You're such a good coworker, puppy. Thanks for helping us feel each other."

"My pleasure Miss Amata. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to dial zero for the desk." 

His voice drifted away as I headed towards the grand staircase. The area landing seems much bigger with each step. Long corridors appeared immaculate and well suited for various voyagers who lived in the hotel. Architecture displayed a lustrous glow that was disorienting from all its secrets. Mysteries lived on the floor, the color red added luxury. It was hard to distinguish if they were bloodstains from war or love. Whispers fumbled from the bar their echoes and voices bounced on the corners of the high ceilings. It felt like a chamber, and we were all stuck inside of it. One could get lost in the pleasantry of the hotel. Expansive, yet unnatural. Practical, but hiding a revelation. 

Another man stood by the elevator door with an expensive silk wrap around his eyes. Black inked hands marbled into monumental beauty. He had an elder handsomeness, regal lion style. There was something else behind the wrap, it spoke to me in whispers. Clocks rewind for a second and I saw golden sigils dripping from his chest. Closing my eyes, they flickered away. Unannounced and without reward. Spooky. My dewy skin stood before him and he knew my presence by feeling it. 

"Hello Miss, what floor are we heading to?" His hands were against the elevator. At a thunk, the elevator hoistway opened partially welcoming. Inside the shiny panels, it looked as if someone left a big cat inside the elevator, their cage. A box it couldn't escape. Unpleasant smells of corpses stuck behind a coffin lingered here. 

Surreal, the mood changed but, it was hard to convey what it meant. My slimy wet frame went inside the prison box. Its chamber felt somewhere trapped underground, breath cold. Airtight oxygen shifted. The man stood by my side and in front of the button panel. I looked up at the dim circular light, an asylum glow. This shipwreck green. One could imagine, that beneath this shaft, there was a place covered in a daze, fog light gleam. Bodies in tubs of lye with crosses of the dead in an endless tunnel. Keepers of this fortress not yet shown. Noticing my introversion, I brushed wet hair out of my face. Keep your cool, girl.  The elevator was creepier than the lobby. 

"Floor three, or so I was told. Thank you...mister-"

"Some call me Mister E. I am the place in between for all the travelers here." He pressed the three as if he could feel the number blind. He stood poised with his black umbrella tapping it twice on the floor. By residence, the silence between us spoke loud words of comfort. Travelers had stories, what would mine be?

"I am Amata, I'll be here for a time." My voice was gentle before the storm. I had no reason to have an act with this man. He had seen more than he let on. Caretaker of the in-between. A guide doesn't meddle. A little bit for everybody. I clutched my bag admiring the lengthy emerald fabric shrouding over his body. Greens against a grey world adding color. He made nature move in a place stifling with coldness. Warmth in language and subtle secrecy. He was a spectacle to be seen. 

The elevator stopped at five, he put his arm over my chest, "Now, now this isn't the floor. Sometimes it goes where it wants to... another traveler is coming to join us, Miss Amata."

A blond tiny Asian girl with disordered hair stared directly into your eyeballs. Tokyo city high fashion ambiance. Vultures swirling in her eyes. A vortex dripped from her brain behind those dark circles. Shifting to her legs, I studied her garments. Black wide legged cargo pants with a front skirt covered in neon patches and gasoline oil goo. Following her belly, gauze and a tiny white undershirt collecting a strange sticky foreign residue. At her shoulders was another layer, of black fabric cropped leaving the chest bare; one arm was through the fabric, while the other was naked. Her face was most noticeable, shimmery glitter stained down her cheeks with neon green and dark black eye makeup. Burgundy plump lips. Wireless headphones resting on her neck. Likely, in tech. A gamer. Part Harajuku, part I crawled out of the dumpster I call my home and haven't seen a human in days, flair. Pressing her septum piercing into her nose she grunted holding two large black fuzzy robes against her wrists. 

She stepped between us disregarding either party. The dull look on her face smelled of uppers and binary codes. Air shifted again, now the airtight became a dagger. It stabbed delicately amongst our bodies. Pinching down our throats and through our lungs. Trees breathe better in nuclear waste. She seemed like a person who might know where The Yellow Room lies. 

"Miss Luxe, where are you heading?" 

Luxe eyed me with sharpness and stepped further in the middle between us. "To the bottom with the whores."

Goosebumps collected along my arms at the sound of whores. This was my in. My limbs were long numb from the chill. Draft in the air added nothing for my pain. Someone who might not give a fuck which bridge she burned. 

Luxe looked up at my goosebumps and sized me up, "You look new here. Want a robe?" 

Shifting my head to the right my eyes coasted her skin. Pale as the moon. One might think we were sisters. Analyzing her tone which seemed innocent for now, I decided I'd form an alliance with Luxe. People don’t talk to strangers unless they have an angle they’re working toward. She’s not a bottom feeder useless fuck like that man downstairs. There’s something else in her mind that I want. It will be mine, her secrets.

"Mmm. Yes, I'm sure one of the brats can fight over it." 

And then there was one. 

Luxe switched to a sinister smile,"Exactly my point. Here."

She handed me the black fuzzy robe. It was soft and felt like animal fur. Vintage, old person smell. Quickly I wrapped it around my body in the way of a shawl. Wetness still made my skin painful. Every moment closer to my destination and facing that bitch Moira warmed my senses. Imagining her fear was erotic. If Tami was dead, she would wish that she hadn't. 

The elevator went to three, and Luxe looked at my height with envy. Her eyes searched for more between us, and none of it was kind. Her face changed to the modus operandi, drone dull. 

"This is my stop. Thank you, Luxe and Mister E. Good luck with those bitches, I'll see you around."

Luxe grunted and Mister E nodded, the hoistway closed behind them and they both disappeared into the elevator. First impressions, those two seemed the least of my concerns. If it was anything like the motherland, this was your typical crowd. The ones running the show aren't lurking in the past midnight hours of the hotel. They have their own curated safe stashes. Working alone wasn't the plan. Infiltration. There are whores which tell me there are submissives. Masks in the master class of seduction weren't their forte. 

My head pounding, I glanced at the numbers on the wall. Arrows pointing to three hundred to three hundred twenty left and three hundred thirty to three hundred ninety right. Numbers blurred hazy, a migraine crept up a vein. Pulling my hands on the robe, I squeezed the shawl to my neck. Now is not the time to blackout. Jerking on the left zipper and opening a bag with one hand. Pinky in, white snow. Down the hatch. God, I fucking hate it here. Finger so far up the nose, you'd wish for a brain aneurysm. Hate cocaine, need the horsepower. Migraine slid out of your skull into wet snot. Tactless, it falls to the floor. Hallway empty void of life besides you. Dilated eyes for thankless weeks. 

Turning right immediately, there’s carnal animalistic groaning, television screens, and voices purring. While the designs were elegant, it still had that cheap boutique motel stench. Covetous of the fucking, you desire the escapism. In long strides, your legs move with your body cranking the machinist. In a corkscrew movement, the cogs turn the way a machine might. At the stop, you find yourself outside of Room 339. That's the one, wasn't it? Pulling out the textured old skeleton, you insert the key, turn and it clicks open. Fuck. Do they all work? Talk about shitty security. 

White mesh on a four poster bed smells of dried floral arrangements and dust. No on or off switch by the door. Lamps on either side with bedside tables. Lampshades designed of hand threaded modern chic abstract. Vents on floor and ceiling. The bathroom door to the right, standalone sink, and a claw, no shower curtain. Window looking out and behind the bed, long windows with curtains. Curtains made of cheap silk, feels like polyester and a rash. A space heater sits next to one of the walls, it has a sign on it that says, PRESS THREE FOR BEST HEAT. No overhead light, no fan, no dresser. The bed has red rose petals on it, some of their edges wilting. 

"How romantic," I whisper, and open up the curtains. It was the creepiest sweetheart suite I’ve ever been in. Respect to the concierge, the vibe to kill was loud. 

Clothes begin to escape your body, you feel them slither off your wet skin. Sea creature tentacle porn. The gravity feels like a drain sucking you to the floor. You want to fall on it and fuck yourself. Drugs peaking and you need the burn. White underbust corset synthetic bone, pasties on nipples with sparkle, long burgundy dress slits at the upper thighs, black pumps, and black long leather gloves. The dress is cut on the front to the ribcage mostly covering the nipple. You'd admire yourself if there was a mirror nearby. Tami would suck your skin absorbing it the way sponges steal from you. Her eyes show up in your mind with shadows covering her face and her body. Greyness of her eyes glow, your lighthouse. 

Turn on the space heater to three craving BEST HEAT. Leaning on the right wall you light that cigarette. You wait. You will wait as long as it takes. Moira shouldn't have fucked with something that wasn't hers. Moira would never understand what it means to chase.