May. 26th, 2010

hallelujahpilot: (but there's no war here)
previously


The hotel is nice enough, but she pays attention to windows, doorways, alcoves and exists rather than any nicety of architecture. The room is a hotel room – there is something about hotels and rooms that is, it seems, ageless – and she dumps her bag on the couch before going to claim the bathroom. A decent trip plus beer at lunch and, hey, she's only human and really has to pee.

She stays longer than necessary, her head in her hands as she concentrates on the even tiles.

She's inside.

Four walls, artificial light, no need to hunt for a filter-mask because she's inside.

Inside.

(she could pretend she was home, but in all honesty, Trudy has no idea what home is anymore)

Pull yourself together, Chacon.


She gets up, flushes the toilet (thank god the buttons are easy enough to work out) washes her hands, takes off her holster and lets it clunk against the bench. She pulls her hair free from its tangled ponytail, splashes cold water on her face and runs her wet fingers through her hair. By the time her curls are damp, and more curl than frizz, she feels calm enough to open the door and walk – holster in hand – back out into the hotel room.

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Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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