The Truth Hurts 2

⠀ #1.2

Low-top canvas sneakers hurriedly stomped against the cracked pavement, the loose soles emitting a faint but still annoying squeak with each heavy step as they trailed their way up a dark flight of stairs onto the second floor of the motel.

'214' was the room Taylor was looking for, and she even double-checked the text message on her phone to make sure.

After passing several suites, she noticed that the numbers were disarranged and didn't appear to follow any pattern whatsoever. It crossed her mind that the building's designer had to be either heavily intoxicated or under the influence of something highly potent. Which, in this area, she couldn't really blame them. She would be too.

Every building she passed by was run-down in this seemingly vacant side of town. The few residents, more like inhabitants, she could spot were gathered in a side alley between a boarded-up movie theater and what she assumed was once a thriving bowling alley. She could tell they were trying to stay warm as they huddled around a small fire ignited in the middle of a charred tire rim. But, considering each cloud of condensation escaping their mouths was thicker than all of their deteriorating blankets combined, it was apparent that the decrepit attempts were nothing but dissipated.

Still able to see them in the distance, she watched as the close-knit group laughed among themselves while they evenly split what appeared to be a scavenged club sandwich. Initially, she couldn't help but pity the strangers. But she soon realized that what she had first mistaken to be compassion was in fact envy.

The uneven floor beneath her caused her to stumble and she clasped onto the railing, regaining her balance—and focus—almost immediately. Her palm felt glued in place by some form of dense substance and, as she peeled her hand away from the bar with haste, her emotions quickly shifted from compassion to that of utter disgust. To be able to live in these conditions and veil out such despair, she believed one must possess an astonishing amount of fortitude. Or just a really strong stomach.

She brushed her palm against her pant leg to scrape off the remaining residue of whatever the hell she had just touched. Noticing a thin strip of light cast upon her, she glanced up to see that she was conveniently standing in front of a door labeled '214'. But, oddly enough, it was cracked open and unchained.

"Mor—" she stopped herself from calling out, already knowing better.

She steadily reached forward to push the door open, already at high alert as her other hand now quickly dug into her back pocket to grab her keys. Her index finger wrapped around a thick plastic tube of mace and she easily drug it out, careful not to allow her keys to jingle in the process.

Despite her tenacious efforts to remain quiet, the door dramatically squealed from its rusted hinges as it unexpectedly swung open to the slight touch and slammed into the wall with such force that a hideous painting rattled in its lopsided position from above the bed.

"Shit." There was clearly no point in trying to remain quiet. "Morgan? Are you in here?"

Strangely it felt colder inside the room than it did outdoors, even though she could hear the heater humming from the vent above. Then again, she couldn't feel any air coming out. As she stepped further inside, she recognized the distinct sound of water sprinkling against an acrylic slab coming from the open door leading to the restroom. Steam drifted from the doorway, the mirror mounted above the sink across from her already coated from condensation. She followed the vapor, almost enticed by the warmth if not the curiosity alone, and turned the corner to find herself facing an azure colored shower curtain. Although the plastic liner was slightly translucent, she was unable to tell whether or not someone stood on the other side.

"Morgan?"

One hand reached for the forward as another aimed the pepper spray, ready to pull down on the trigger at any moment. Without further hesitation, she quickly pulled at the curtain to find nothing but an empty tub as water poured down onto it from the shower head above. As she turned off the faucet, a blurred figure moved in the reflection of the tile and she spun around, aiming the mace forward when—