The motel room

Her eyes ran through the dimly lit room, scrutinising every object. The crumpled silken sheets were frayed at the edges, the satin flowers embroidered on them had lost their sheen; splotches of sweat mixed with dirt collected over the cushioned headboard were in dire need of scrubbing; the faded lampshade on the bedside table had certainly seen better days. The windows, covered with thick dusty curtains, hadn’t been opened for a while, she reckoned. The room needed airing to get rid of the overpowering dank smell.

Her gaze amusingly shifted to the woman’s picture on the wall. She was changing her car tyre. Her hair was neatly coiffed; her outfit- a short fitted onesie with lace stockings clipped on to a garter belt- wasn’t exactly comfortable for a task like this. She scowled at the woman’s choice of clothing.  

Her eyes finally rested at the pile of clothes carelessly thrown over the chair next to the window. It belonged to the man who’d accompanied her to this dingy motel room. She’d met him a couple of hours ago in the shady part of the town. His lifeless body, covered with blood, lied next to her in the bed.

Written for https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2018/11/17/sunday-photo-fiction-november-18-2018/

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding