Egyptian cotton sheets...

How many more days can I do this? How much longer will I survive?.
The voice in my head, he tells me I have no idea what I am talking
about. The voice in my head, well, he's right. What I just said doesn't
even begin to make sense. Then again, neither does the voice. Perhaps
from here on out I'll call him Harry. I think in the beginning I was
just being melodramatic, not making absolutely no sense. Of course I
will survive. Of course I can do it. But can I stay sane? That I think
is the real question. Harry, how would you feel if you had to choose
between living out the rest of your life to the fullest or killing the
two men that you had loved the most as of last year? Well, let me tell
you how I feel. Lousy. Oh, people will tell me to go find a shoulder to
cry on. I have a shoulder to cry on. The shoulder of the man who is to
either help me in killing them, or to kill me when I don't. Gee, isn't
he a wonderful choice. Although, while I do not cry on his shoulder, I
do leave fabulous bite marks night after night. But that is a secret.
Nobody is to know of that. We rest for only 3 hours, so we go to a
sleazy motel, going to sleep after we tire ourselves to the sounds of
many other couples tiring themselves. These motels are why I carry
clean sheets in the car.

They are dark and decorated in horrible colors they call "neutrals" or
"naturals". There is nothing about these colors that even begins to go
with either word. They clash with everything, and, while they do occur
in nature, it is in only the dead or the dying. Harvest gold is the one
phrase that comes to mind. The curtains, installed for privacy, do
nothing of the sort. They do not close all the way in the middle, and
are so threadbare a blind man could read a newspaper through them. The
carpet is the very cheap indoor/outdoor type. Very durable. Very
unpleasant on any form of bare skin. The tiles in the bathroom are worn
away with age, level to the black grout, which one would assume had
once been grey.

Still in the bathroom, one might note that the shower curtain is about
four feet long, and the shower head about as high. The tub was 12
inches deep, and 18 inches wide. The toilet overflowed if anything
other than a liquid was flushed down it, and even then it would
overflow sometimes. There are two towels, both the size of a piece of
poster board bought at Wal Mart for a school project, and just as
absorbent. Generously, the management provides 2 plastic cellophane
cups and a small bar of soap, about the size of a matchbook. The sink
is the size of a mixing bowl, and tends to leak. However, there is a
spare roll of toilet paper, so how can anything ever go wrong?

Mind you, the bedroom is even more special than the bathroom. There are
two small double beds, and, when pushed together, they equal the size
of a California king bed. There is also a small table with two chairs,
but all three looked like they might collapse if any weight was applied
to them. Above the table was a wall sconce, providing the only light in
the room. Next to that, there was a dresser, whose only purpose was a
place on which to set the caramel colored telephone and the old wood
veneered television. Atop the television was a card listing the
channels the motel got. Most were accessible only with a valid credit
card, but were actually rather entertaining. Still, to this day, I
found it amazing the amounts of things people could think to do with
various vegetables and battery powered jelly things.

The beds are the focus of the room, elaborately made up with a brown
knit blanket, an old tan sheet, and two paper-thin pillows. Right next
to the bed was a small end table, on which a bow was attached. It
looked very much like the boxes attached to the kiddy rides in front of
grocery stores, only this one had rather graphic pictures and words on
it, thanks to a rather creative former occupant. A change machine in
the lobby existed for the very purpose of use in this little box. When
change is inserted in the box, it makes the oddest noise, but leads to
a very nice experience, really. Of course, it only lasts for about a
minute. The box, not experience-giver, and a small amount of time must
be taken to restart the thing. The motel employs one maid, and has no
washroom. The sheets feel stiff when I touch them. The room smells
stale. And, possibly worst of all, a pair of paisley panties are still
in limbo between the sheet and the blanket, with good knows what other
confusing underwear under the bed. And, ladies and gentlemen, and
Harry, that I why I carry a set of 240 thread-count Egyptian Cotton
sheets in the trunk of my car, right next to the box of ammo and the
big green duffel. Don't ask, and I won't tell.