July Writing Challenge Day 29

So, I decided to drop the story from yesterday. Hadn’t really thought it through enough.

Today I decided to try a story I started a few months ago, but do it in a completely different way. I’m not going to say much more, since I’m kinda out of it right now, but I hope you enjoy it. Lemme know what you think.

Untitled
By E W Morrow
Word Count: 626

How many nights has it been? Twenty? Forty? He can’t seem to remember. The lights in the city never seem to fade, never seem to change. During the day the smog chokes the warmth and brilliance sunlight as it struggles through the towering skyscrapers, and at night there are a million lights reflecting off glass and oil slick puddles. Perpetual twilight reigns over the city. Any part of it he visits, at any time of day, seems to look the same as any other. That’s not true, not really. The fashion district is obviously different than the upper Burroughs, and the brick facades along the wharves are darker than the ones you find in midtown. No, he can tell the difference if he tries, but he never does. It all seems the same to him. Unfamiliar.

Eleven months. That was how long he’d been gone. They’d been some of the best, and shortest, of his life. For eleven months he’d left the stuffy, diseased, filth encrusted confines of the city behind him. The freedom he’d felt had been intoxicating, almost exotic. Freedom to breath and move and grow and think. He’d done it. He had escaped. And now…

He pulls his sedan up to the corner, slow and sure. He doesn’t recognize the neighborhood, but the girls that slink forward through the neon light seem to know him. They purr and whistle and flex long, slender limbs in his direction, all latex and fishnet. A few of them touch themselves, a finger tracing a line between their legs, a hand cupping a breast and flashing a nipple. He wants to get out. He wants to heed the siren call and join them, to give into the city and run through the streets killing and fucking and debasing himself. A second part of him wants to leave. Leave the corner. Leave the city. Be free again.

He slips his hand in his pocket, fingers the worn edges of the photograph tucked there, and knows he can do neither.

He pulls in to the motel and tells the girl to wait while he get’s a room. Fifty bucks. A hour. He pays in cash, takes the key and leads the girl up the stairs. The railing wobbles as she leans against it. How much easier would it be if it were to give, he thinks? If she leaned against it with all her weight and it suddenly fell, spilling her out on the pavement below? Would he be free again? Would the city’s hold be shattered? Or would the cycle simply begin again? They make it to the top and the point becomes moot.

Inside the room the air has the unpleasant tang of chemical odor remover. The girl doesn’t seem to notice as she reclines on the bed. She bounces expectantly, the bed springs squeaking and her gum smacking. He pulls out his wallet and hands her a hundred dollar bill. She slips it into a slit in her plastic shorts and smiles.

“How do you want me, baby?” she asks.

For a moment he considers taking out the photograph. Has he already shown it to her? He can’t remember. Definitely not tonight, but maybe before, on another night. Even if he had, it was always possible something had changed, that she had remembered something or met someone who knew the boy in the picture. But he doesn’t. Instead he unbuttons his pants, let’s them fall in a heap on the hard, stained motel carpet. He’s already semi-hard from anticipation, and he swells to full as the girl grabs him.

The sex is loud, the pace hard and fast, but passionate would be the wrong word to describe it. Desperate. Cathartic. Unbridled. Those would be better words.

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