Empties - p1

[charliehorse3.livejournal.com]

First part to a story I'm working on the plot is called The Empties, and it will go into different sections on different characters. This will be the first character. I encourage you to visit my journal and see the plot. Located here: charliehorse3.livejournal.com/515.html
Feed back is wonderful. I can't express how much I apperciate it so if you bother to read just even a one word comment would be nice. Thank you!

Light, tinted in strong shades of pink and oranges, peeked in through the blinds. A few moved quietly to the breeze incoming from the air conditioner, and would sway with the swagger of a drunk man once it was turned off. The blinds were about two inches each and all hung vertically from the single hook holding them up. Their original, pure, color was white (which could be seen if you moved the blind to the opposite side facing the window pane), but because of constant smokers they were turned into a brownish cream color. It looked like tea stains almost, and despite the housekeeper's attempt to wash them (told through the obvious stench of bleach) they shades stubbornly remained cream. An old table, situated directly to the left of the air conditioner, had a single, plush chair (which was rotated to look outside the window) made up for the need of a desk. Papers lay astray all over the desk, and even the house keeper didn't bother to clean them up - with the exception of picking up a sheet or two that blew off the desk from the occasional gust of wind brought on by the air conditioner. To the back of the desk, away from the papers, were several paper cups containing old, black coffee and cigarette buds. When it became unpleasant enough the maid would pry them off the table and into the garbage, but only receive an unappreciated complaint from the anal guest. 

The guest couldn't even be called a guest, but rather a customer, or perhaps, a houser. He seemed intent on staying in that particular room, and had stayed there for at least two months now. The day he appeared the room was already occupied, but even so he demanded that room especially and offered to pay double the price in order to stay. Now the motel was of many and a relatively active, and competitive, city. And the motel wasn't exactly high class now, but rather run down compared to those top companies with terraces and big swimming pools. So, when the offer to pay more came up, well, needless to say the poor costumer was moved out to a different room at one in the morning. Another peculiar thing was their "houser's" habits. Accordingly, his housekeeping was to be done during the night (by housekeeping just changing the sheets and renewing bathroom supplies) because he slept most of the day. He would leave just as the sun went down, in his fine coat and hat with a soft nod to the front desk receptionist. A lot of gossip went around the motel about that fine young man, clearly in his late twenties, going out so late every night. The conclusion was he was either a bartender or some sort of security guard.

"Houser" did seem to have that sense about him. Even though he didn't say much, but the occasional and formal "hello, how do you do?" he was as quiet as a mouse. He kept to himself, and wouldn't be seen at anytime during the day. He would either be locked up in his room researching something, as the maids gathered from the pile of papers and books he kept in an untidy mess, or sleeping - as the sheets were always crinkled and in need of changing. One woman down the hall, said that she heard a man yelling once during the day as she checked into her room, but oddly enough there was no reply. It instantly became the motel's gossip that their "houser" had nightmares, or daymares by exactness. 

The worst of it all, and possibly the most accurate gossip, was that night when their "houser" came back wounded. He walked in about quarter to three in the morning, waking up the groggy desk receptionist, and according to him was tightly squeezing his shoulder. He could see red stains through his tan coat, and by his paleness of skin he could guess he was wounded. The receptionist, naturally, picked up the phone to dial an ambulance, but the "houser" as if already knowing his coarse of action stopped him with a grunt. The words he spoke, according to the receptionist that night was, "hem- I don't need any of that. Just get me a few rags, some strong liquor, and a sewing kit." And once the items were gathered he limped up to his room and shut the door. He didn't acquire assistance, and he treated his own wound. Admirable, it was for a time that he was tough enough to sew up his own flesh, but then the question came to rise - what if he was a criminal? He seemed admirable, with all his fine suits and his slick brown fedora hat that matched his tan coat. He was fine groomed, and didn't seem any the least unpleasant. But that could all be a cover up. Truly, the mysterious "houser" was one of the most interesting things to come to the motel. And he stayed mysterious and the center of attention until that day.