Chapter Text
No Record of You
Hotel beds have a serene feeling to them. The sheets always cold, despite you overheating. The sounds of traffic out the window, the buzzing of the air conditioner unit. The voices echoing throughout the halls. The stiff mattress. The inability to sleep in, always awake at dawn. The footsteps that seem so distant, yet right outside your door at the same time. Time. What a funny thing. It doesn’t seem to exist in this hotel. The days go by, but you just got here. It's time for dinner, but you only just woke up.
This hotel is not particularly bright. You have stayed in many hotels. The lights can be soft and warm, or bright and artificial. But here, it seems as though it's always night. You know the lights are on, you can open the curtains and see the sun, but it's weirdly dim. It's grey, almost. Maybe darker.
Boredom is an interesting thing. Some activities bore you, while other times you do those same activities because you're bored. For example, walking around the hotel, counting how many doors there are. Exploring, see what it has to offer, rather than checking the brochure. It has a pool, though no one swims, as there is no water. However, there is a single life guard on duty. They do not acknowledge you when you walk in. They do not blink, they simply stare at the dry pool, as though waiting. You decide not to bother them. The floor is still wet, despite everything.
You assume it must be morning, as when you pass the lobby you see the continental breakfast. Small tables by the window, the large pots of coffee and tea. It’s silent. There is no talking, no laughter, and no yawning. The people do not chew, they do not sip their drinks, they do not touch their plates. There are no children, they are not allowed in this hotel. They don't tend to last long here. but you imagine had there been, it would not raise the volume higher. You do not need to see the faces to know they are tired. Everyone appears intently focused on whatever they are doing. Reading the newspaper, though it's all the same. Looking out the window, journaling. But you know better. Their efforts go into ignoring the other guests, not their mundane activities. That is the unspoken rule. Not many things are spoken here. You quickly grab a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and trudge up the stairs back to your room. The air conditioner continues to hum. The traffic continues to go by, the footsteps and voices still echo the halls. You stopped asking where they are from many nights ago. The old rooms, maybe. The locked ones, that no longer hold visitors? The ones slowly and slowly creeping up to your door. You used to have neighbors, you think. You never spoke to them. Never looked at their faces. You have some to the right of you, sure, but the left is empty. Has it always been empty? Had the laughter and hushed late night conversations always been there? The footsteps? Or did they only start when rooms started to clear out? You think of this often. Though you try hard not to. You make your bed, there is no cleaning staff here, You brush your teeth, you change clothes. You do not drink your coffee. You learned that lesson many stays ago. You do not unpack, nor pack your suitcase. There is no point in either, as it will be the same mess the next time it is morning.
A part of you, a cold, desperate, stupid part of you, looks at the phone and considers calling room service. You flinch at the thought. There is no staff here. Well, there is. But not like how there used to be staff.
You hear a knock on a door, down the hall. One of the farther rooms, you think. Followed by a call for room service. A door slams, and another knock. Closer, this time. You realize it's time for bed. A curfew, of sorts. You put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door knob, and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold, yet you are overheating. The mattress is stiff, and you hear humming from the AC unit, along with the sounds of traffic below.
You wake up. Your alarm has not gone off, though you don't remember if you set one. The clock reads the familiar time of 5:30, and you sit up from your sweat drenched sheets.