The October Amaryllis

Chapter 82 - March 16th, 2018 - 3:53 P.M.

The Marriott we went to was beyond beautiful; they had this massive painting on the ceiling of little cherubim angels chasing after a lamb that was lost in a field of what looked like barley. It almost reminded me of The Catcher in the Rye a bit in a strange way. Maybe this is weird, but I absolutely love religious art despite not being religious; something about it is just so beautiful. Stained glass is my favorite; seeing it always makes my jaw drop.

"Looks like we found heaven," I jested.

"It's not heaven if it doesn't have a complimentary breakfast," Malcolm replied with a small smile.

"You always know how to make me smile. So where is your cousin?" I asked, looking all around the hotel. All I could see were bored-looking kids and their exhausted parents. Children are both the worst and greatest thing ever, let me tell you. I mean, I love them when they behave, but once they don't, oh boy...

"He should be at the front desk. Let me try something; wait for me here," Malcolm said, leaving for the front desk. I could see him talking to the guy at the front but had no idea what exactly he was talking about. The only thing I heard was occasional words that, without context, made no sense.

It was about two minutes before Malcolm ran back and told me that he had booked us a stay for the next three days. (that's how long the rewards program could accommodate for)

"That's cool and all, but what about our money? We can't even make it that far," I replied anxiously.

"Oh, yeah? Then what's this?" he asked as he pulled out a wallet stacked to the brim with cash out of his right pocket.

"What'd you do, rob an ATM?" I joked.

"Maybe, stay in your lane, partner," he replied jokingly.

"Anyways, let's go up to our room; I want to lay down for a bit," I replied, stretching. I witnessed at least three distinct timelines flash through my mind at breakneck speed as I did. It was so unexpected that I nearly fell over after experiencing it. You know that stargate sequence scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey? That's what it felt like, like I was on the world's fastest roller coaster.

"You alright?" Malcolm asked, noticing my pallor.

"I'm fine, let's go," I hurriedly said, walking towards the nearest elevator. You should have seen how shiny the elevator walls were; I could perfectly see my face in them and just how stupid I looked with my dropped jaw.

Once we finally arrived at our room, I jumped on my bed and laid down on my stomach, still in my black Chuck Taylor shoes. You have no idea how comfortable the bed was. It wasn't as nice as the bed in Arcadia, but it was incredibly close.

"Let's turn on the radio or something," Malcolm said with a bored look as he pulled out his phone.

"Could you play some oldies? I feel in the mood for the classics." 50s to 90s music is my favorite; I'm not a fan of most modern music. Don't get me started on mumble rap; it shouldn't even be considered music and should be seen as a form of torture. Didn't the Eighth Amendment promise to protect us from cruel and unusual punishment?

"Sure," he said as he pulled up the Silver Spoon station, which was a station that played music from the 1930s to the 1960s. The oldest song I recall it playing is John the Revelator by Blind Willie Nelson. Personally, I like the song of the same name by Depeche Mode more.

The song that played was Moody River by Pat Boone, and it nearly made me cry. The lyrics are about this guy who finds out his girl cheated on him and how she committed suicide by a river because she couldn't take the pain of hiding it anymore. Apparently, during the 1950s and 1960s, tragic songs about teenagers were trendy. My favorite piece of that variety would have to be Teen Angel by Mark Dinning; my second favorite is Tell Laura I Love Her by Ray Peterson. Coincidentally, when I was in the fifth grade, I had a crush on a girl named Laura. I was too scared to ever tell her how I felt, though. I get too anxious about everything, to be honest with you. I even get nervous when I open my front door; I always worry that something terrible will happen to me. I read way too much true crime for it to be healthy for me. I haven't been the same person since reading about Sylvia Likens. It's like I'm obsessed with reading disturbing shit even though it makes me feel worse after. I remember reading about Robert Fisher and feeling too terrified to sleep. Only read about him if you don't want to have a good day.