I didn't sleep at all that night. After everything that went down the day before, closing my eyes was the last thing I wanted to do.
Michael stayed up with me. He told me that, when you're dead, you don't really need to sleep. It's not necessary to unless you're bored with nothing else to do. He told me that when you're dead you get bored a lot, especially when the only place your soul can reside is in an old hotel.
It was going to take until sunrise for me to process everything that I was told last night. After everything I found out about Michael, Al, and the Hollywood Hills Hotel, I was still in shock. I just couldn't get over the fact that Michael told me I was going to die in this horrible place, and that I actually believed him.
I was mostly pissed off at myself at this point. I kind of got myself into this mess in the first place, because I was too stubborn to listen to all the people telling me not to check in. It was times like this - times where I'm told I'm literally going to die - where I wished I had listened to people like Mrs. Stadwell and Christi.
I didn't know what to think about it all. Part of me thought I could still crack the code of this hotel and survive, cheating it like a game of Scrabble. Another part of me still thought Michael wasn't telling the truth because he gets a kick out of playing tricks on people. The rest of me, however, knew deep down that one day I'm going to die in this hotel, and there will be nothing I can do about it.
It was almost 4:00 AM and I was laying with Michael as we talked, our bodies sprawled out over the top of the neatly made bed sheets. He was telling me everything I needed to know about the hotel, now that it truly was a part of me. Just the rules, regulations, how things work around here. I doubt anyone will accept me even if I tried my best to blend in; they all know I'm still a mortal.
"...And Charles makes the best tacos ever," he was saying, as he discussed the restaurant in the ghost-town basement. "Like, seriously. Every Tuesday. I'm there."
"Nice." I said tiredly, rubbing my fists over my eyes. I was hardly paying attention to what he was talking about. I just liked hearing his voice.
"Yeah. So, that's that. There's a lot to do down there in the basement, you know," he said, turning his head to look at me. "I mean...after going there for four years straight you get kinda sick of it, but you know what I mean. You would like it down there."
"Mhm."
Michael blinked and looked down at his hands, furrowing his eyebrows in thought. "And, uh...I guess that's it."
"Well," I said as I sat up, rubbing my aching my head. "I guess it's time that I be honest with you, too."
"Huh?" Michael sat up as well and looked at me at me oddly, waiting for me to continue.
I really hoped Michael wouldn't be upset with me when I tell him about my article. I hoped he would understand my motives for starting it, and consider us even. I am dying, after all.
I took a deep breath and looked away as I spoke. "I was writing an article about this hotel," I admitted. "I was writing an article about you, actually...and I know you made it clear that nobody in this place wants to be exposed like that, but I was doing it anyways.
I glanced at Michael out of the corners of my eyes. He was staring at me blankly. "And uh, yeah," I continued, scratching the back of my neck nervously. "I got about half way through it, and I was gonna talk about you and how we met and stuff...but I deleted it."
Michael raised a brow. "You deleted it?"
"Mhm," I nodded. "Well, I'm going to delete when I get my computer back... that I can promise you. I was gonna publish it, but as I got to know you I realized that it probably wasn't the best idea. You deserve your privacy. You deserve to be respected."
