Name: Delores Stanton.
D.O.B: 1979
City: Portland Maine.
He skimmed the rest of the information. Everything seemed legit. Apart from her damaged soul that was sucking every ounce of air from this room. It didn’t seem right at all, it was all so wrong. No woman this beautiful should look this broken or this empty.
He handed her back the card, his eyes lingering on the scratches and cuts that covered her hands and arms, and the shadow of a bruise on her cheek bone. She didn’t seem to notice his staring, her own gaze having drifted out of the window to focus on the empty horizon, as if she couldn’t bear to be in this room any longer, but wanted to be back out on the road, travelling somewhere far, far away.
He looked further, deeper, seeing the white lines of scars slipping out from under her blouse and yellowed bruises reaching towards her neck. They were subtle, probably easily concealable with makeup. He wouldn’t have noticed them if he hadn’t been looking so hard, or if she’d been looking directly at him, because he would have been lost in her eyes. But now that he had seen them, they were all he could see. Everything else about her fell to the wayside, swallowed up by the history written across her skin.
Scars, and cuts, bruises and a broken soul. She was tortured every bit on the outside as she was on the inside. He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. He saw many things in this job—many types of people. Normally he didn’t bat an eye over it. Normally he couldn’t care less, but this woman—this Delores Stanton—clearly needed help. She turned back to face him, her face devoid of any other emotion than anxiety.
He jumped, startled at her haunted expression and quickly exchanged her ID for her credit card, taking payment for the one night and handing it back to her swiftly. They stared at one another for a moment. He was unsure of her, of what was wrong. Unsure if he should ask her again if she was okay, maybe call the police, or if he should just let her be.
“Lady, do you need me to call someone for you?” he asked. She looked confused and he continued. “The police? Do you need help?”
Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, you don’t seem okay. Has someone hurt you?”
A bitter smile crossed her perfect lips. “No, quite the opposite.” Her words came out strangled and painful and she looked away. She’d said too much. “Can I have the key please?” she whispered. Her voice was soft, softer than he’d been expecting, yet a little hoarse from the obvious crying she’d been doing.
She held out a slender hand again. More pale skin, chipped nail varnish and a gold wedding band around her finger. And then more cuts and scars. He looked from her hand to her face several times. Her hand trembled almost inconspicuously, yet she didn’t bat an eyelash.
“Are you sure that you’re okay?” he asked. Perhaps she’d been attacked. His mind worried on what could be wrong with her until she spoke again.
“I’m fine…” she paused, cocking her head to one side in questioning, and waited for him to tell her his name.
“Danny,” he mumbled back.
“I’m fine, Danny, but I’d like to go get some rest if I can have my room key now.” Her hand stayed poised in the air, waiting.
“Sorry, yeah, yeah.” He turned to the board behind him, and then remembered he’d already chosen her key. He turned back around and scooped it up off the counter and placed it in her open palm before quickly typing in the room number and her details on his computer.
Delores Stanton. Room number six.
The key jangled loudly, the blue plastic of the tag lying face up as it clattered to the counter. Danny looked up abruptly, his glasses slipping down his nose.
“Not that one,” she choked out the words. “Please, not number six.” She swallowed hard, almost choking on whatever was stuck in her throat. Her words sounded almost strangled.
“Erm, sure, yeah, sorry.” He picked the key back up quickly, turned around, and dropped it on the floor. Danny cursed and bent to pick it up, fumbling for a moment to grasp it, before standing upright again.
He stared at the pegboard as he replaced key number six and chose a different room. Danny glanced over his shoulder as his hand hovered over key four, but she shook her head gently and a single tear fled free from her left eye. He moved his hand to key twelve and she nodded.
He grabbed key twelve and quickly tapped the new details into the system before handing her the key. He turned back around to grab the complimentary bottle of wine that was being handed out as part of the weekend promotion. It was cheap and nasty, but she sure looked like she could use a drink.
When Danny turned back to face the woman, the door to the office slammed shut. Her brown hair trailing behind her as she ran in the direction of her room.
He placed the bottle back on the shelf and sat back down on his aged wooden stool, his thoughts thick with worry for the woman. He’d seen his fair share of trouble come in here over the years. Hookers, drug dealers, families, husbands cheating on their wives, wives cheating on their husbands. He’d even had his fair share of women come in crying after a beating from their boyfriends, but this woman—Delores, she was different. In her eyes was a sadness, almost a finality to her life.
She was hauntingly beautiful and yet tragic enough to leave a bitter, dirty taste in his mouth. With a shiver that had more to do with this woman haunting his mind than the air conditioning, he picked back up his newspaper, and skipped to the back page to read about his favourite sports team.
*
Delores stood in the doorway and stared into the small room.
The door swung wide open, bouncing against the wall and made its way back to her. She caught it gently and held it in place, looking the room over once more. A single bed with a moth-eaten cover on top, a small wooden bedside cabinet that probably hadn’t been new when it was placed in this room, and a dresser with an aging TV on top of it. The sagging ceiling was riddled with cobwebs and water stains that promised little in the form of safety if a storm ever hit this place.
She closed the door with a soft click and walked briskly back to her car to retrieve her things. Opening up the trunk, she grabbed the small backpack Michael had packed for her and closed the trunk again before locking it. She avoided looking at the red car next to hers. Her eyes never even glanced at it though she was aware of its burdensome presence.
The backpack was light, only the bare minimum of things packed neatly inside. Just a few items Michael had grabbed for her on the way out the door; toothbrush, toothpaste, a hairbrush, and some spare clothes. The most important thing she kept in her purse: a photograph. She kept this item close to her at all times, but she didn’t much care or need for the rest of her things.
Back in her room she placed the backpack on the bed, opened it up and looked inside with a heavy sigh. There was no point in unpacking, and her stomach rumbled as a reminder of what she really needed to do now that she was here. She placed a tentative hand over the painful ache where her stomach was, her fingers digging in to the flesh there and rumpling the loose blouse she wore. Her body felt sticky with sweat and grime, the clothes clinging to her in places she would rather they didn’t and making her feel even more uncomfortable.
She glanced towards the dated bathroom but her stomach grumbled again in annoyance and so she headed back out of the room and towards the small diner. The place was busy, busier than the car park would have led her to believe, and for a moment she contemplated just leaving and heading back to her room because the thought of being surrounded by these happy people was claustrophobic. Besides, what was another night without food really? Another night of stomach cramps and headaches? It was nothing.