Groans seep through the hotel walls like blood through an old bandage. The air pulses in unison with the two hearts on the bed. Syringes (used) and pills (thrown up) scatter the dingy carpet like bodies on a warfield. The zombie-like flowers hang over their vase in a dazed fashion, as if they can’t believe what is happening right in front of them. On the door hangs a “Do Not Disturb” sign.

His pants come off, no protection goes on. Off slips the expensive business shirt, revealing a different suit. His clothes are cast away, to be remembered when it is time to clean up what warfare left behind. He is sinking in, quickly drowning in the feeling of cheap sheets and another being’s skin.

She is numb and afraid to cry out, but does not want to go ahead with this dirtiest of deeds. He is taking off her shirt, letting it join his clothes on the floor, more victims to the war. The waves of energy in the room are too much, and she succumbs to instinct;

“Please don’t! I won’t tell on you! Don’t make me do this!”