Room 712

Everything is a memory, distorted and made of pieces trying to weave together their own selfish story. He had worked with the woman before but could not piece together their full relationship in his head. It felt like he was trying to see an old photo's details through the tarnished lens of a magnifying glass. A fear awoke in him.

"Just take the case to room 712."

It was a small case and heavier than he expected. The case was used, but the brass locks showed little indication. They were polished and seemed loved.

"What's the address?"

"West Fifth. On the corner. Damn thing takes up a whole block."

"OK."

"Leave the case on the bed and the key at the front desk. There is a little box labeled 'KEYS' for it."

"OK."

For the first time he could recall, hesitation tainted his voice. He wrote the address in his little black notebook and placed it with the envelope with cash and key into his leather shoulder bag.

"Have it there before noon tomorrow. It gets busy after that."

The woman grabbed her hat, a large-brimmed, black, and ugly piece, and took a last glance at the case. A look flashed over her face. Uncertainty? It was hard to say. Her crooked face, capped by that awful hat, always seemed strained and mistrusting. She stared at the case, maybe looking for some last words, but turned away and left the diner, disappearing into the September streets outside.

After taking one last sip of cold milk, he grabbed his bag and the case and left, heading towards the bus stop.

It was a warm evening for this time of year. The shallow breeze creeping down the street did little to cool the air. It sat on him, arid and unpleasant. The sun was beginning to set, and the brick building across the street began to flicker to life. As the edges of the building darkened against the red, orange, and yellow on the horizon, the lamps of other people's life resurrected the windows of the old brick corpse. He looked away towards the corner, unimpressed by such a familiar view.

As he walked, the lights over the streets began their nightly shifts, casting long and then short and then long shadows as he passed beneath and beyond their soft orange glow towards his stop. He was passing darkened, dangerous alleys and more boring brick boxes.

He will be able to purchase an automobile after this is over. The thought passed into his mind and was quickly blown away by the warm breeze as he reached the bus stop.

At home, staring at the ceiling tinged blue and flowing from the store signs outside his window, he searched for any memory of the hotel he was to visit. Nothing. He turned away from the swirling haze of moving lights and rested his eyes on his bag. Within was enough money to get away from this tedious space. Not that he desired anything much more, but a change of scenery that did not leave his eyes so strained, maybe some mountains, seemed welcoming.

He looked around the room. His record player and the small collection of albums were barely visible in the dim room. His usual desire to listen to them was not reaching him tonight. His bag, strap hanging over the edge of the round wood table left by the last tenet, contained more power than he could reckon with at this moment. There was a half-empty bottle of scotch, its screw cap sitting on the table beside it. The case, with its dazzling brass locks and rough black sides, was sitting by the door. Better not to bring it fully into his place. It was a meager room, but it offered solitude from his loneliness. At least here, he thought, he chose to be alone.

Done observing his surroundings, he stood slowly and began to edge his way towards his whiskey. He did not feel that reaching it quickly was in his best interest. He poured a couple of fingers into a relatively clean glass and moved, deliberately, towards the kitchen sink for some water. The groan of the sink finally gave way to a spurt of water, tainted brown with rust, which he added to his whiskey.

He inched towards the couch, finding himself feeling a tinge of cold crawl over him. He allowed himself to fall back against the stained fabric and took a long drink from his glass. It hurt going down. Warmth radiated from his stomach, upwards from just above his navel, like warm fluid running over his body, and the cold faded away. He took another drink.

There were no dreams. Just a moment followed by another.

He looked towards the case, his eyes still adjusting to the morning light. The sight of the case arose a sense of urgency. His body still carried the heat from whiskey the night before, but a new chill now rested on him like a shroud. There was a grey haze over everything, like a film tainting the light's color coming from the window.

He rubbed his eyes and tried gathering himself, taking a moment after standing to find his bearings. He could feel a revulsion grow in him as he began to get ready, a force pushing him away from delivering the case. Yet, to fail to do so, he knew from the deepest caverns of his person, would mean absolute annihilation.

He stood, trying to find where these strong feelings were emanating from, searching deep recesses in his mind for some answer. The visceral emotions injuring him now had never shown themselves before. He had never felt such conflicting feelings during his work. Was it the amount of money he received? Possibly, he thought. Over the years, he had done more than a few odd jobs for the woman with her black hat, but there have been plenty of deliveries. It was better to have a nobody like him caught with a bag of contraband than the individual willing to pay for the service. Regardless, the woman had never offered so much for an uncomplicated delivery. It did not sit well, but the die was cast. The case, with its silent heaviness, must be delivered to the hotel.

Forgoing his shower and wearing the same clothes he did the night prior, he grabbed his bag, checking to ensure he had his notebook. He found the envelope, holding his twenty thousand dollar payment and the key to room 712, and decided to keep the money with him. He grabbed the case and went straight to the bus stop.

His bag was cutting into the spot on his chest that was radiating heat. He ignored it.

The money felt more substantial today. Leaving the diner, he was amazed at how light twenty thousand dollars felt; the physical presence did not match the life-changing capacity it held within. Today it felt dangerously heavy, pulling him towards the center of the world as if it was trying to crush him. He could feel the strength of the money trying to throw him off-kilter as he attempted to complete his task. Each progressing step felt like a triumph over its will. Just moving felt exhausting. Finally, with great effort, he arrived at the bus stop.

Once on the bus, he became more aware of the coldness he carried. It clashed violently against the warm vitality of the people already seated. The chill that infected him settled closer to his body as if it were being attacked. He shivered slightly. He could feel an unease begin to appear from within him.

Arriving at the hotel, he could not help but feel it was out of place. The bricks, red like dried blood, contrasted with the dead grey terracotta tiles under the building's windows. It loomed over the smaller buildings, haunting them with its might, encouraging a sense of melancholy.

I hate it, he thought. His dread growing.

The doors opened into an expansive lobby, with a staircase at the end leading to the second-story platform that wrapped around the hall. Two large beacon-like lamps illuminated the space; lighthouses warning visiting travelers of the dangers within, he felt, in this dustbowl of a sea.

While waiting for the elevator, it felt like time began to limp. The need to carry out the delivery, so close to completion, turned his unease into agony. A rift formed, his deepest self screaming for resolution and also a prolonging of that resolution. He stood waiting for eons.

Despair, from an unknown part of his mind, began to garner authority. When finally the elevator arrived, signaled by a sharp ping, the hopelessness erupted from him. The arrival shattered him into pieces. Once deep fears now felt worryingly close to the surface, aching for air. These were met with desperation to continue to room 712. He hesitated to step into the metal box in front of him.

The longer he lingered, the more distance he kept between him and room 712, the thicker and more stifling the cold shroud became. Each moment slowed as he refused to move forward.

As the darkness of his inaction spilled over him, the fight to enter the elevator clawed from his broken self, trying to propel him forth. His vision, murky and fading, gradually began to clear and lighten. The most substantial parts of his agony fell away like dead leaves but left painful scars behind.

Finally, he was able to enter the elevator and press the button for the seventh floor. The elevator ascended faster than it seemed to arrive. Once he decided to relieve himself of the case, the hotel seemed to oblige.

The seventh floor was quiet with a worn carpet marred by years of abuse and neglect. The smell of dirt and metal and tar filled his nose as if the street outside impregnated every crevice of this floor. Each step toward room 712 was difficult. His bag grew more burdensome, and the case caused his fingers to become numb.

He arrived and opened the door with a loud click in the hallway's silence.

The room was black. It consumed the light of the hallway. All he could see was a soft glow from a small orange light by the bed. The light struggled against such perfect darkness.

Stepping into this oblivion, the need to complete the job created a sickly feeling in his abdomen. The end had come, and he accepted nothing was left beyond setting the case on the bed—a momentous task.

Releasing the weight of the case created a sense of absolution. He could feel the pained numbness transform into a euphonic emptiness. The radiating heat from his center, that feeling of flowing hot liquid which had lingered since the night before, dissolved. The cold that haunted him now felt safe and inviting.

The darkness began to close in on him even as the orange of the lamp started to grow. It became unfocused, blurring the scene it illuminated. The cold that had folded itself over his whole being began to comfort his anxious mind.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the light had become focused again. The street lamp, its orange glow above him, made the blood on his hands appear black. The gunshot wound just above his navel was no longer spreading heat or pain; it spread only a mild numbness through his body.

The person who shot him, after he left the diner, had run off with his bag, envelope, and the case with its gleaming brass locks some time ago. It would never arrive at room 712. His desire to live, the longing to survive that cleaved its way from his very marrow, had attached itself to the fantasy of delivering the case. Still, it, too, had passed into the abyss. He accepted his reality. He was dying on the sidewalk, with only the smell of dirt and metal and tar.