Pierce and Scarlett are two unique fragments who cross pathways in a low-end motel. He is running away from his haunted past, while she is trying to build a future from broken pieces. As the pair collides in a series of trying events, they must figu...
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1 | The Motel
Pierce's Point of View
I never anticipated that the fragment of me, who I am, was going to be shattered into a million pieces; tainted by bullets and blood before I had the chance to become whole.
Stepping away from the curb, I watch the bus continue its journey along the road. Why couldn't I stay on the bus? Why does this have to be the last stop?
I'm startled by a young boy dressed in a black hoodie sprinting down the pathway. His bright white sneakers hit the pathway in an uneven pattern as he struggles to hold a small television screen within the confines of his arms.
"Stop that hooligan," shouts a man. "He's stolen my television!" The old man's footsteps are in sync with the erratic beat of my heart. After a minute, he stops in the middle of the road, the boy is no match for him.
I watch him like a hawk, my focus tied to the unfolding scene. The man reaches for a bulging object inside his leather jacket and it strikes a chord of fear in my heart.
Tugging my hooded jacket closer to my body, I bow my head and walk in the opposite direction. My luggage creates a pattern of noise in the background which only urges my feet to move quicker. I can't stay on the streets.
I follow the nicer looking pathway to get away from it. The white painted strip down the middle of the road doesn't only separate the road into sections, but perhaps the town.
With luck, I stumble upon a red bricked building with a large neon sign with 'motel' written in orange lighting. I push the door open and sigh with relief. I'm not completely safe, but the alternative feels better.
An echo of a bang radiates through the door which makes me jump to attention. My fingernails gitterishly tap against the worn out mahogany desk as I wait for the petite woman to address me. I notice her curly red hair cascading over her shoulder. The woman continues to scrawl across a page until her mushy pea green eyes flicker to me.
"How can I help you?" she inquires.
"Could I please get a room for one?"
"Ahh . . . yes." The young lady collects the stack papers from the desk and passes them to the side. She grabs the cordless mouse and shakes it back and forth. The noisy fans in the computer hum to life as the faded yellow computer turns on.
I nervously glance over my shoulder and wait. It's not until the receptionist coughs, that my eyes leave the door.
"How long will you be staying?" .
"Oh, um." I stare at my hands. "I'm not sure," I admit. I hadn't thought about things that far in advance.
"How about a weekly payment plan?"
"Yes, thank you." I nod.
"I'll need a name and a deposit on the room."
"Pierce Davenport." I glance at the door as I grab my wallet from my pocket, and then I slip a few notes across the counter.
