The hotel room was cramped, but it would have to do. She let the suitcase land on the floor with a solid thud. The air was stale, but it had never been more beautiful. Her body felt heavy, for the first time all of the energy from being on that constant alert had been drained from her.
She let her body sprawl out on the bed. The fabric of the blanket was itchy. Her body felt like it was moving on auto pilot as she turned on the television. It glowed with a blue light that seemed like salvation. The sound of an infomercial about cleaning solution was a choir of angels singing the song of freedom. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she had felt this way.
After crossing that threshold, somebody had died. There was no corpse, which would make cleaning up the pieces easier, but whoever it was had faded away like dust on the wind. For the first time in years it was Abby Hortland who was on the bed with the itchy blanket. It was Abby Hortland who had turned on the television.
Quinn Crook is a nonbinary, autistic writer. Their work has been featured in Sledgehammer Lit, Warp 10, Celestine Poetry, and other fabulous publications. They can be found haunting local coffee shops in the quest for the world’s best latte. Follow them on Twitter @QuinnCWriter1.