Folie à Deux

[This is the beginning of a noir-inspired story, a prequel to Death's Kiss. There is another snippet from later in this story in my portfolio under the name A Snippet From a Downward Spiral.]

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The winter of 1954 was shaping up to be a nasty one. The wind howled outside the beaten-down hotel off the side of the road as the desk clerk stretched his legs underneath the scratched-up check-in counter, silently reading yesterday’s paper. Snow was coming down thick, layering an innocent white quilt on top of yesterday’s now dirty slosh.

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Man, this weather was crap. Hopefully the snowstorm would pass by tomorrow, though he didn’t hold out high hopes for it.

 

The man shifted in his seat before flipping his newspaper to the next page. He’d read it front to back at least seven times already (and completed the crossword, for that matter), but it wasn’t like there was much else to do on a late night shift at a crappy hotel in the middle of nowhere. Nothing ever happened in Borderton, Canada — too close to the border for locals, too remote for tourists. At least skimming the newspaper kept his hands busy.

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The man had just glanced over at the clock for the 53rd time — it had barely moved since the last time he’d checked it — when suddenly the door jangled open. 

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He looked up, surprised. It was a beautiful, young enough looking woman. She made her way over to the front desk, her eyes unfocused like her attention was somewhere else. Honestly, she looked terribly out of place next to the peeling wallpaper and scuffed linoleum floor. Her frizzled brown hair tumbled over her shoulders as she dug through her purse, pulled out a fistful of rumpled bills and slapped them on the counter.

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“Does this cover a night’s stay here?” she asked. Her eyes had a wild sheen to them.

 

The man looked at her oddly for a beat before reaching out to count the bills. Frankly, it covered it and then some, especially in American dollars, but he wasn’t about to tell her that and lose out on the extra cash. Instead, he just nodded and picked up a pen.

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“What name should I put you under?” he asked, his hand poised over the register. 

 

The woman hesitated. Swallowed. “Belanger.”

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He nodded, jotting the name down. “Got an ID?”

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“Left it at home.”

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He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow, but he wasn’t one to make a fuss about it. This was a seedy hotel on the backskirts of nowhere. They’d be out of business if they turned away people without IDs.

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He shrugged, retrieved a key from the rack behind him, and held it out to her. “You’ll be in room 4, just outside.” He gestured out the door with the keys. She took them gingerly and left without another word, shoving the door open behind her and stepping back out into the winter storm.

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The man scoffed at her retreating form in the window before returning to his newspaper. A thank you would’ve been nice.

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_______________

 

She barely felt the snow pelting her coat and the wind whistling batting her hair in her eyes. The motel was dingy, but serviceable for one night. Or two. Or however many she would end up staying here. She didn’t know. She was drowning in the storm of her own guilt, and it seemed like it would never pass.

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He’s dead. She shivered as she fumbled the key into its keyhole. He’s really dead, dead, oh my God he’s—and you did it, you—no, he deserved it, there was no other way out of that nightmare and you know it—

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                  —but no one deserves that—

 

The door burst open and she stumbled through the doorway, only barely taking in the run-down room she was walking into. The world felt like it was spinning, tilted on its axis, and there was no way to put it right again. Never again, never again.

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I killed the love of my life—

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              —he sure didn’t act like the same man I married all those years ago—

 

—but I STILL LOVED HIM, and I never realized—how could I do that to—

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The whirling storm of her thoughts had been muted the entire drive across the border, but now that she had nothing else to focus on, no big goal driving her, the full force of it flooded her.

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                  You left your daughter without a father, what kind of monster are you—

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She’s going to come home and see her father shot dead on her bedroom carpet.

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         Breathe. Breathe, you need to—

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The light hummed as she flicked it on before collapsing on the bed and burrowing her face in her hands.

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Her stained, blood-soaked hands…

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She swore she could feel the damp stickiness tainting the black leather of her gloves, the phantom warmth of it staining her very soul. That was a feeling that would never go away… his blood on her hands…

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It was then that a simple, yet clear thought rang out above all the others: 

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George is dead. And you shot him.

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And finally, with only the howling wind outside as her witness, she let herself cry.