Death by text at The Fancy Hotel.

Its been 3days since I did it.  It was brutal.  Insults like filthy blood sprayed everywhere. Spit was flying.  Tears were rolling.  The reality of screams cracked through fantasy like a judges gavel.  Let the guilty verdict fall on me.  Id do it, again with no remorse, just the same.

I kicked in the front door of the hotel, swinging my machete to protect my personal space.  As people came close, attempting to defuse and restrain me, I was not to be entertained with even the thought of it.  I had been tempering and sharpening this blade for about a year.  I forged it from metal of the sword that cut me and forked my tongue when I was a young child.  So, it sliced through living flesh as though it were phantom.

I could hear men yelling and women gasping tears as I passed the elevator and headed towards the stairs.  The 9th floor?  Sure, sounds 'bout right.  I dont know why I chose the 9th floor.  I figured it to be divine guidance becuz I heard her voice as soon as I stepped into the hall. Such a beautiful laugh, like bells and chiming harmonies.  Talking and chatting, her story fluttered down the hall like a wandering pixie.

If I was ever sure, it was in those moments.  This is not the first time I have heard her romantic candor being conveyed to another, besides myself.  Once apon a time, I told her I was in love with her.  I figured from the beginning, she didnt really want to know.  But, I told her, anyway.  Selfish, I know.  Careless.  Eventually, the destined day would come and any hostages would have to die along with one of us.

My Darling, she really could be such a wonderful woman.  I offered.  I even put the knife to my chest for her.  She said she would.  But, she never finished anything she ever started.  However, I should not have asked her to fix my mistake.  Once again, months had passed since she vowed to twist the blade deeply secure into the middle of the suffering pain and make the ultimate cut.    Instead, she dragged it with her to this hotel room.  Hanged by a thread over the balcony, it swung between a tease and a threat.  

I huffed and I puffed and I blew open the hotelroom door.  I charged like a bullet with a mission towards the balcony.  Again, swinging my machete, it came down on the metal railing with a striking spark and severed that thread.  She was behind me in the room, already nursing a flesh wound her company had received in the confusion of my sudden entry. While I watched it fall 9storeys and then splatter on the sidewalk below like a grape tomato, the display of  her loving attention for her company  was confirmation that it was, in fact, finally dead.  If it ever was alive, I think not.

As I turned to clamly walk out, I set fire to the curtains.  The bed sheets, towels, fuckin lampshades.  Even the god damn bible in the nightstand drawer.  It all caught aflame so easily.  A blaze set for ashes was raging just behind me already as I left the building.  I waited around the corner long enuff to make sure they both made it out.  I blew my nose on the murder scene as though tossing a rose onto its coffin.  Although, no need for a funeral.  I will not be returning for memorial.