Scream of Sorrow [ON HOLD]

TWO

"Room seven," said the old man behind the counter, handing Reagan a pair of keys.

She nodded at him and began to carry her luggage up the creaking stairs.

She ended up at a motel after two hours of searching. And it had the worst rating she'd ever seen.

It wasn't like she could just call home and ask her parents to send her any money, that wasn't even a choice. 

And she couldn't take anymore money from Adrian as he had already paid for half of her ticket.

But it was a good thing she worked back in London. She had enough money to last her a week there. 

She cast her eyes downwards when she passed a group of guys in the hallway. That was not going to end well if they opened their mouths.

So she sped up her walking and took another flight of stairs, struggling with all these equipment bags.

She puffed her cheeks out and leaned against the door labelled 7.

The door's green paint was chipping and the wallpaper was peeling and scratched. 

No wonder the ratings were shit.

She could literally hear the two men talking in the room across her and the noises coming from the door next to hers that she didn't want to investigate.

Even the doorknob was close to falling, she was sure that if she gripped it too hard, it would fall into her hand.

Sighing, she unlocked the room and stepped in.

She groaned loudly and covered her face as her eyes registered the mess in the darkness.

The bed was made haphazardly, the curtains were ripped in some places, the chair was knocked to the side and the room was covered in dust. 

"Fuck my life," she said under my breath as I pushed all the bags in and slammed the door shut. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" she screamed, kicking the wall but regretting it as soon as her toes began to hurt.

She turned the faint lamp on and took out her charger and plugged it, praying that it worked well and almost throwing a party when the battery flashed on her phone. She opened one of the bags, glad that she had enough sense to bring a blanket with her. She spread it on the bed and sat on it, trying to block the noises from the room next-door. 

If only she had known that I would be staying in a motel, she wouldn't have even thought of coming. But she couldn't really blame Tate. It wasn't his fault, at all. 

She grabbed her blunt from my pocket and lit it up with a lighter she found on the bedside table and waited for the phone to turn on.

Fourteen missed calls from Austin.

Damn.

She decided to ignore him for a little, not in the mood for his chirpiness.

Tate sent a message and she checked it before opening it to respond. He was asking whether she got settled in yet.

She answered him and avoided telling him that it was, in fact, a motel she was staying in. He just bought her excuse that she forgot the name as she was really bad with names.

She didn't want him to know how bad it was with her. He didn't need more stress, anyway.

Sighing, she flipped the lamp switch off and fell back onto the mattress. 

She was tired but even a day-long flight wouldn't go against her insomnia. 

It was going to be a long night . . .