The early morning air is crisp and cold. I walk down the walkway of the motel with my maid’s cart. My new coworker, Tamara, is talking nonstop about how happy she is to be here. Meanwhile, I’d rather be dead. We have done about three rooms so far this morning and I’m already over it.
As I crack open the door to room 206, a familiar foul smell greets my nose.
“Great,” I whisper, hanging my head down low. I turn to Tamara, “Turn away.”
“Why?” she asks.
“Or don’t. I don’t care.”
I swing the door the rest of the way open, exposing the insides.
“Oh god!” Tamara screams. Her face contorts in a strange way and she grabs hold of her stomach.
“I told you to turn away.”
I walk into the room with my cart, the carpet squishing as I step.
“We have to get out of here! We have to call the police!” she says, running into the room in pure panic.
“They never tell the new employees the truth. I always have to be the one to break the news,” I say, bending over to pick up an arm. I throw it in the cart. I turn and look at my sheltered companion. “Look, our clientele aren’t normal people; some aren’t even people, but it’s our job as maids to clean up what they leave behind. This client left behind pieces of last night’s dinner.”
Confusion runs across her face. “This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. You’re delusional!” She turns to leave. I grab her arm, quickly.
“Don’t do this,” I sigh. “You need to calm down or they will come down here.”
She yanks her wrist out of my grasp. She turns to leave but is stopped abruptly. A large shadowy figure is standing on the other side of the doorway. The figure reaches out its hand and grabs Tamara by the throat. She struggles for a way out but its grip is too tight. Her face turns from its normal hue to a bluish-purple.
“Let her go. It’s your fault for not telling her the truth.” The figure grunts but does not let go of Tamara. I roll my eyes and grab my mop. I start to smack the figure with it and yell, “Stop that!”
“Fine,” the figure says coldly. It drops Tamara and vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
I look at her on the floor, she is bruised but alive. I grab a wet cloth from the cart and walk to her. “Hey, it’s okay now,” I say, bending down and putting the cloth on her forehead. She looks up at me with disbelief and sobs. I help her up and over to a chair.
“I’m going to die here,” Tarama says after a while.
“Maybe not,” I say shrugging. “It is a hell of a job though.”