Shadow On The Eyes

Sunny Motel

I hung up the phone. I knew Eric didn’t realize Sunnyfield was more on the west side of the state, with nothing but farmland and no oceanfront access. So, I didn’t tell him and figured he could find out on his own.

I needed coffee badly. My hands were almost shaking from withdrawal, like an alcoholic’s. But I’m not a drinker and never have been. Sure, I could appreciate a cold one on a hot day, but coffee was my drug of choice.

The cheap little coffee maker had baggies of condiments and coffee. So, I decided to try using that finally. Damn, decaf in one and just the leftover straw and unused sugar in the other. “Shitty hotel,” I complained out loud, but no one was listening.

The thump almost spooked me from the floor above me. There was screaming and yelling that I heard coming from somewhere yesterday after I checked in, but the rooms around me were quiet most of the night.

Another loud thump, and some douchebag started yelling this time. I decided it was necessary to head out and get a decent cup of caffeine instead, or I may have to go up a floor and ask whoever it was to quiet down.

It didn’t take long, and I was able to find something drinkable at the nearby gas station. The weather in Missouri was already heading into fall, and that meant more memories coming back. I needed to leave this state, I had planned on only staying until the house was sold, but then, I found myself returning to their graves over and over. 

The therapist said I might need a few years to grieve. He said it’s different for everyone, but I didn’t need or even want a few years. I needed and wanted to join them, simple, problem solved. But he didn’t find that option realistic.

For the next few days, I occupied myself with sleeping, watching the shitty reception on TV, and occasionally throwing one of my boots at the ceiling to get peace from whoever was making so much damn noise. At one point, some tatted-up ball of meat trying to fit into a stained wife beater top came down and knocked on my hotel door. I just watched him through the peephole and never answered. He eventually went away. It tells you just how classy the hotel was because it needs a peephole. 

Sunday came, and my beat-up old suite case was ready to go, and so was I.

After triple-checking for anything I missed, I left the room and headed to the elevator. 

It took a few minutes of waiting on it after pushing the down button. Then, finally, the thing clicked and popped with sounds of gears and wire struggling to hold on. I looked around at the smoke-stained cracking paint on the walls.

 There was a picture on the wall next to the elevator, and I stepped toward it. The fuzzy soft scenery had blue and purple flowers and wispy trees surrounding a small pond. In that pond sat a small white-painted boat holding just a woman in a dress and summer hat. She was smiling and watching a little yellow curly-haired girl throw petals into the water. I zoned out while watching the little girl, hearing her giggle and the woman saying be careful.

“Dude, you getting on?”

The male voice snapped my attention back to the elevator. The doors were open, and some young kid was holding the door dressed in tight ripped jeans, piercings everywhere, and spiky green hair.

I nodded, “Yea,” and stepped into the elevator.

The silence was unnerving, and the elevator smelled of piss. I didn’t dare take a deep breath.

It reached the main floor, and he stepped out before me, giving me a look like I was the weird one.

I dragged my broken-wheeled suitcase up to the front desk. A large woman watching me get off spoke, “Checking out or in?”

I was trying to wrap my mind around her question when I glanced back at the elevator directly across from the desk. She obviously saw me get out of it, “Checking out?”

She looked at the computer in front of her, and the printer behind her spit out paper.

“Sign here.”

I signed the card authorization form.

“Thank you for staying at Sampson’s Inn. We hope you enjoyed your stay.” 

Her words were mechanical, typical, and scripted. When she handed me my receipt, I gave her a forced smile.

I was on autopilot for the 13 hours it took me to get from Missouri to North Carolina. I only stopped once, if I remember right, to use a grimy restroom at one of those older mom-and-pop gas stations. The gas was cheap, so it was worth it. Unfortunately, my appetite was still on the outs, so I grabbed beef jerky and coke to hold me over as I drove.

When I was close to my destination, signs for the small town started appearing alongside the road. Even though it was well into the night, billboards with exaggerated expressions prompted me to stop at Sunnyfield. The creepy smiles promised home-cooked meals and cheaper rent. There was even a billboard sign saying it was historical, and the town was known worldwide. 

Worldwide for what? I’d never even heard of the town or anything about a big piece of history being clung to there.

Finally, the welcome sign appeared as my headlights hit the exit. ‘Welcome to Sunnyfield, where the past is seen and still heard.’ Yea, leave it to me to pick a place for escape, to remind me of the past I wanted to let go.

Getting off the exit, I could see the average homes lining the street. Many of them looked the same, which is expected in small towns. 

Where lights were lining the sidewalk and emptiness had settled in, the occasional stray cat or dog stalked the glow.

It was less than a few miles, passing the lookalike homes and abandoned repair garages. I finally came to a bright red neon sign that randomly blinked SUNNY MOTEL. Boasting free wifi and premium tv, it was only one floor and very deserted.

The real estate agent’s pushiness was enough to get me set up with a room and even popped for the bill. I suppose that beggars can’t be choosers, not that I needed to beg.

When I parked in front of the entrance marked CHECK-IN, an elderly lady sitting on an old fiberglass bench by the door, having a smoke, faced the headlights. Her beady yellowed eyes watched me as I got out of the truck. It made me feel uneasy.

“You here for a room?”

I wanted to say no. I was here for pest control but decided against it and just nodded.

She suddenly coughed and spoke in a voice beaten with a hundred years’ worth of smoking, “Follow me.”

Forcing herself up, like it was such a task to move, she put the cigarette out on the bench and waved me towards the door.