Suicide Hotel

  And I'm driving through this autumnal scene with red, orange, yellow leaves clinging to the branches of the trees, which envelope the road. And I'm heading to The Suicide Hotel. 

  One hand remains on the leather steering wheel while the other brings the cigarette to my lips, as I take a drag from time to time. The tip of that cigarette, it must burn an autumnal red. The car is tearing down the road and the chill coming in through the window makes me feel so alive. 

  I glance down at the notepad to my side - there is a number, 15. "One. Five." 

  15 unfortunate souls may have journeyed down this road, rushing through the reaching trees, on there way to The Suicide Hotel. 15 unfortunate souls who decided that they'd rather take the gamble, peek behind the curtain... Look into the realm beyond this one. Or maybe, if they didn't believe in the possibility of something else, they craved an abyss over the purposeless(?) lives they lived. 15 dead in the last year... They stayed at The Suicide Hotel. 

___

  I want to know. I want to understand. 

___

  I get out the vehicle and the slam of my car door, it makes the typical "crunch" noise. My first glimpse of The Suicide Hotel and I must say, I'm underwhelmed. There is no flare, no style, only substance. The bleak white façade, it's like ambivalence has saturated the building. Bleached it. 

  The sunglasses are on, yes, it's autumn... I don't care. My denim jacket is pulled over my hoodie and I take the steps up that wooden porch. Into the hall. 

  Sombre figures are peering out at me from the paintings they reside in. Faux chandeliers are hung from the ceiling and one wonders if, in less austere times, the "genuine article" may have ceremoniously occupied their place, caking the room in light more majestic. 

  Disorientation and an odd sense of dread. The halls are dark and I am in a tomb. 

___

 

  I check in and get my keys; my keys get me. 

  The room is oppressively hot, for what reason I don't know. And the old wooden furniture, old enough to have absorbed countless memories, feelings. Everything in this building is saying something to me. 

___

  She did it when I was young. Like when I was six or so. I came in from school and dad was there, his head buried into his hands - a mess at the kitchen table. He wasn't crying but there was a suffocating silence that prevailed over the soft words said by his mother (my grandmother) and his sisters (my aunts). There was this strange feeling that struck me - something had snapped. And I wonder if, even then, I realised that the carefree youth I'd enjoyed so far was being displaced. A sinister, insidious anxiety was sneaking in. My eyes met my grandmother's and that was confirmation. 

  I was six or so, when my mother took the decision to end her life. I don't know if I ever blamed her. I don't know if I ever forgave her. 

___

  There's this communal lounge and I'm inhabiting it alone, perched over this table, writing. Writing thoughts, trying to turn them into something cogent. Trying to turn them into something readable and I feel that panic. The panic that's generated when you know you have to perform - hey, that's the life of a writer, right? Any performer... I suppose. Yet suicide, it's a topic you need to treat with the level of tact it deserves. Readable. Appropriate. 

  I place the black pen down for a moment, let it rest. The ink already sprawled across the page, I give it time to dry. 

  Someone. I just want someone to join me. Let this silence dissipate. The coffee could be better but it definitely could be worse. And at least this lounge is devoid of the nightmare inducing pieces of "art" that dwell in the other parts of the building. 

___

  The History of The Suicide Hotel - 

  Located in Baldwin's Heights, this odd little lodge was established by some f**king nobody, whose importance to this story is minimal. In bygone years, when marriage was still a tactical tool, used to cement social status and sure up a family's position, this particular place got a bit of a reputation as a refuge for young lovers whose relationships could never truly endure... because, well, can love endure the daunting nature of reality, ever, really? Knowing love to be worth more than a life unfulfilled, worse, a life corrupted by the practical demands of those who were supposed to care for them, the lovers would venture from this destination deep into the nearby wood. And their bodies would be found in a certain embrace. They cradled each other but they didn't fear the cold which would take them in the depths of winter. Because they wanted death, as long as it would bind them to their lover. Death, the promise of a future life. 

___

 

  She enters the lounge and my attention is taken from the notepad. 

  Long, black hair, curling down her shoulders. Dead, black eyes. Dark top. Dark jeans that hug her figure. Cautious, she comes into the room - there's something about her demeanour. Probing glances, light footsteps. Checking for predators or something? It's The Suicide Hotel honey, not The Murder Motel. No one is out to get you here. Presumably people are much more concerned with their own lives, not the lives of others. 

  Our eyes meet. That moment is fleeting, yet palpable. 

  An almost mechanical reaction occurring as I see her... She's not obviously beautiful. She's no divine angel, no chorus upon the lips of the church choirs when they sing. You can see she's a solemn sinner.

  But wow. 

___

  You have one life, I suppose... maybe more. I'm not sure yet. 

  The point being, I go and talk to this girl, all butterflies, hormones, storms. And she's quiet, at first. Awkward. Then she opens up.

  She's funny (in a way), interesting, knowledgeable, especially about music. The acts I like. Bon Iver. The Paper Kites. All this emotive stuff which will lift you out of your room, transport your soul. 

  The way her dark hair frames her face. And the way that topic always appears to be on the tip of her tongue because we are here after all. If I'm thinking that about her (it's The Suicide Hotel, so?) is she thinking that about me? Do I look fragile, a vase waiting to be smashed into the tiniest of pieces? Do I look frail and vulnerable and at the edge? Surely not. 

  And I learn a little bit about her family. The family she intends on leaving behind? Her parents are a**holes; they've been weaving the web of her fate for her all her life. She's gone to this school - it was what they wanted. She took those subjects because they wanted her in that profession. Close to her sister though, a strong bond. They cry over the craziness of their claustrophobic little world together and shield each other. 

___

  It's late in the afternoon and we're stood out in the hotel grounds. I pull out a cigarette and offer her one. The wind is carrying off any lingering heat that may have been audacious enough to hope it could roam for a while longer. 

  We stand in a strange kind of awe. Dumbfounded by each other. That leather jacket doesn't really look like it can withstanding this Earthly onslaught of cold chill; my denim jacket, equally, is more of an aesthetic statement - look at me, the proud peacock. 

  Shivering. There's this strange kind of resilience we're displaying as neither of us want to go inside. We know that out here there's this reason for us to press up close. This cold can press us into each other. She breaks my gaze and looks up into the quickly darkening sky.

  The first stars are shining overhead now, expectant. Their romantic pulsing, perhaps a rudimentary form of star communication? I think of how the stars might be using beams of light to convey cosmic messages to one and other. What wisdom we could find in our abundant skies if we could decrypt these ancient messages. Maybe there would only be one message. 

  Love. 

  It's love and death at The Suicide Hotel. 

___

  She's in my arms, shaking still, the cold rattling her. Her eyes are no longer tinged with that same bleakness. And I wonder if I see something more than vulnerability. I wonder if I see her. Really see her. 

  My work. My mission here. I don't know that it matters now. What was I ever trying to do? Was I trying to create some crass article for a magazine, glamorising the events that transpired here? Was I trying to genuinely talk to someone who might help me get some glimpse into her mentality? What was going on in her mind? Trying to bandage up an age old wound? 

  Her lips matter, meeting mine - our very human kiss. Two humans just wanting to make sense of something, to hold on to something as this world moves and moves, turns and turns, till we're no longer walking on its surface but under its soil. Devoured and consumed. 

___

  It's late. There's one source of light in the room and it's the lamp on her bedside table; we're busy taking it in turns, shadow puppets. Conjuring black forms onto the wall of the room, like we're performing some sort of ancient ritual. 

  I watch her brushing her teeth in the en suite, that figure only covered by a top and panties. And I'm watching intently, a healthy level of interest. Those long legs, soft and slender. The sound of her spitting foam into the sink. The gargle of mouthwash. She turns to face me, a little look of shock as she sees me slouching against the door frame, observing. Something akin to a grin as she evades me, all stealth and flexibility, and she passes me. Clutching my t-shirt, she guides me to the bed. 

  Not fire and passion. Warmth. We are cocooned in blankets, waiting. What metamorphosis, if any, will the night bring as we, two individuals, lay there as one? There's only her breathing. It prevails over the silence. 

  It's life and it's running through her now.

  Sleep. It finds us eventually.