The motel is like something out of a horror film. The neon sign outside flickers, the man behind the counter leers, and the room is dirty, ominous stains on the wall and a bathroom mirror streaked with dirt and other things. But no one cares who you are here, and they take cash, and that's the whole point; you're running away, after all, and this is merely the first stop on your journey. You don't have much with you, just a bag filled with memories of people you've lost and a dog, which you snuck in through the back window, the one friend you have left. For now, you have enough money to survive, but it won't last. You have a degree, but it's useless, and you only graduated out of spite, an angry young man's fuck you to a world he believes stands against him.
Tonight is your fourth night in this hell. The water ran out halfway through your shower, and the toilet won't flush, and you can hear sounds through the paper-thin walls, masculine groans and the high whine of a female voice that makes you feel sick. You're curled up on the bed, and the dog is sprawled out beside you, head on his paws as he watches the door. Your phone is clutched in your hand, and you're afraid to check, afraid to see if he's called. You tell yourself you don't care, but you do, oh how you do. You want it so badly it aches, and you know that if he asks you to come back, you will. That's all you want. You just want a sign that he cares, that he's noticed you're gone. The girl you love left you (nine hundred thirteen days and counting) and he's all you have left.
Your hand shakes as you look at the phone, and you take a deep, deep breath as you flip it open. The dog turns to look at you as you sit up, searching for missed calls, a text, anything. The shaking spreads from your hand upward, and tears blur your gaze as you hunt desperately for something that doesn't exist. And finally, finally, you are forced to accept reality.
He didn't call. He's not going to call. He doesn't care, he never cared, and everyone you love has turned their backs on you.
You are alone.
The phone sails across the room and hits the wall, cracking into pieces that scatter about on the floor. You scream, not caring who hears, because it doesn't matter, and you scream until your throat turns raw and you can taste blood on your tongue and the dog hides under the bed with a whine. Tears come once the screaming stops, hot and desperate, and you muffle your choked, anguished cries against the dingy pillow as your body is wracked with sobs. You cry until you can't cry anymore, until you have no energy left, and as your weary body drifts into sleep you find yourself hoping that you won't wake up.