My Hotel Peculiar
The next few days after the party, everything returned to normal. Normal for everyone else. But not for me.
Nothing felt the same for me, not in my mind and not in my body.
Because I had changed.
All I could think about was my father, about the sounds he’d made in his special room. And how the woman screamed.
I didn’t understand what I was feeling then, when I saw my father cut her skin. The blood. I never knew it could be so dark, but seeing it trickle over her white skin . . . it made me feel funny. It made me ache in a way I couldn’t explain. A good ache, like I was hungry and hurting all at once.
Every night I lay in bed, remembering her screams, the twisted look on her face.
I wondered why my father did that to her. And yet, somehow, I already knew.
He did it because it was fun.
I thought about the woman a lot, even more than my father. I remembered the slow roll of blood across her throat. It was beautiful. Like a painting brought to life.
Every time I pictured it, my breath got caught in my throat, and I knew I wanted to see it again. I wanted to know how my father felt.
Thinking about what he did to the woman always made my stomach get that funny ache.
And if a memory could make me feel that way . . .
How good would it feel to do it myself?