“Yes, fine, thank you.” She blinked rapidly, clearing the unshed tears from her eyes and forcing herself to remain calm.
The young man stared at her a moment, taking in every inch of her before nervously tucking his long straggly hair behind his ears. He was handsome, in an untraditional sense, with sharp angles to his jaw, and a straight nose. His hair hung long around his shoulders, and his frame was gangly rather than muscled. He pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose and made his way around the counter once more, though he still looked unsure.
“What can I do for you then?” he replied hesitantly, a small frown furrowing his brow.
“A room.” Delores reached into her purse and pulled out her small wallet, fumbling for her credit card and ID. “A single please, nothing fancy.”
“$32.50 for one night. We have a great special on though, two nights for only fifty bucks and a complimentary bottle of wine,” he spoke with false excitement, as if this were the best deal of the century, but his face betrayed his enthusiasm. Or perhaps hers did, and it was hard for him to continue with so much gusto. “Everywhere is booked up for miles around, but we—,” he looked away from her face, a face that he was sure would haunt him for the rest of his days. “But we, umm, we saved rooms for any last minute…” his words trailed off as he looked up, finally meeting her gaze again.
She was pretty. Pale skin, deep brown eyes that he could lose himself in if he’d been allowed, and long brown hair that had probably once shone with strength and vitality. She was slender, easy on the eye with curves that dared to be handled and legs that went on for miles. She was older than he was, a real Mrs. Robinson type, but beyond that, she seemed haunted, cold, and lost to the world.
He reached behind him and grabbed a room key from the board. “Need to see some ID please,” he mumbled, accepting the card she was already handing him. He read it, staring confused at the woman on the card and then back to the woman stood in front of him with the rounded shoulders and the sallow skin, because they seemed like two very different women. It was as if the woman in front of him had had the life pulled out of her. And he’d been right—her hair used to be shiny, the kind you want to run your fingers through.
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.
