A Fighting Chance by Sand A.J

Author:Sand, A.J. [Sand, A.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-02-02T16:00:00+00:00

HELL IS EMPTY AND ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE

I think someone’s having sex right next to my head, or inside my head, because the headache I’ve got is definitely similar to a headboard slamming into a wall. It’s painful to open my eyes but I do anyway; I need to know which one of my theories is true. Grimy white walls and cheap cracked furniture come into focus, but I’m wherever I am alone. The noises are seeping in through the walls from next door. Wait…where exactly am I? When I sit up, my muscles protest, and I immediately have to run to the bathroom to vomit. From the looks of things, I must’ve done the same thing before. Recently, too. The memories spill in with a swirl of dizziness. I’m in a hoteles de paso, one of those skeevy hourly rate joints you can pay for in cash, with tacky, bright decorations and really, really thin walls.

As my vision clears and I catch a glimpse of myself in the cloudy bathroom mirror, I gasp in horror. There’s blood down the front of my shirt. I have that panicked moment they always show in movies when the guy wakes up in a room with a dead body and can’t remember anything, but more memories come rushing in, thankfully. Salon Tigre. That stupid fight with Jimmy. Wandering. Getting jumped by those guys. It’s my blood. They beat the shit out of me. I lift my shirt and my chest and torso are covered in ugly bruises and cuts. My face probably looked like a sack of potatoes a few days ago, too.

I need to call a cab. I remember right then that those were the same famous last words I thought before those guys attacked me. I check my pockets for my cell phone but it isn’t there. Did they rob me? I ransack the room and find my wallet on top of the television set, but my cell is definitely gone.

When I step into the hallway, the door to the room next to mine swings open—where all the action was happening a few minutes ago—and a woman in disheveled clothing rushes by, stuffing cash into her bag. I trail her down a dark, creaky stairwell for the reception desk, where the clerk sits behind a bulletproof glass barrier. Lap of luxury I’ve chosen here. I tap on the glass partition and she slides it open.

“Do you speak English?” I ask the middle-aged woman. My voice comes out hoarse from my ragged throat.

“Sí,” she says, with a cautious smile, “más o menos.”

“How many days have I been here?”

She flips through a large book on her desk and taps a spot where my room number is listed. “Today, make four. You come, bleed everywhere. You give money and say no policía. You pay six days. I give you room.”

I gulp down so hard it ignites more inflammation in my throat. Four days. Shit. I must’ve come in after the fight, passed out, and just lost everything in a haze.

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