Wings of Light

Diabolical Deed

"Do ya know what the best about the jogging is?" An inwardly narrative voice echoed through her skull whilst knitting together her thin, elegantly dark eyebrows when the light spring zephyr gently fanned her neatly, casually modest coiffed with its tied in a low bun long wavy aureate hair unlike the fistful of unruly, cheerfully glossy gilded tresses bouncing up along with her soft fat of her bosom, escorting docilely the rhythm. "It asphyxiating the stress and those growling hormones of the incessant reminder of yar daily problems you encounter relentlessly. It's like a teeny-weeny sport to keep yourself in shape." The impending destination of the former licentious jazz nightclub singer was getting back inside the godforsaken hotel as her petite-frame glided smoothly through the lobby after setting foot inside the interior and decelerating her pace deftly when a handful of strangers along with the hotel owner shooting fleet glances at the blonde, who strolled up towards the elevator to ascend to the last floor which was namely the fourth.

In a long minute of awaiting patiently the elevator after manifesting to press the button with a few fingers and darting a fleetly nimble glimpse at the front door and the lobby shortly before the elevator's current progress of descent from the third to the first floor unnervingly ticked, thus ominously ordinary snort coursed through the middle-aged lady's tiny, flexible nostrils and utterly relaxing her arms.

Once the elevator's unceasing descent floor by floor and peaking to the first, the lavishly silver doors swung broadly opened at the illustration of a handful of clients stepping out of their eased entity at last and the former pious sister of the church hopping up inside the site and adjusting for the final floor to get back inside her reserved room emphatically after her evening jogging.

For a moment of pure patience and murderous versatility, Jude peaked to the final floor of the façade and strolled up leisurely, squarely towards her reserved room numbered 406. A couple of fabulously acrylic and watercolor paintings exquisitely hovered on the wine red floral royal wallpapers along with a grandiose French window in the end of the hallway that was categorically shut, in order to prevent any unintentional accidents of any of the hotel customers between suicide and homicide. The first four doors of the abysmally dim lit corridor hardly possessed any inkling of decrepitude unlike the fifth door's discrete details illustrating the actual furniture leading to its linked site apt to variant between series of dim leery scrapes and a few dried dark blood blotches embroidering the wooden material, arousing its candid, gruesomely tangy pinch of salt of every owner's gape darted to the sinisterly imprinted like tattoo traces.

It's not that the Bostonian paid utterly attention to anything encircling her, despite her sharp slyness and razor-sharp intelligence, unconditional instincts and intuition, the gruesomely unspeakable landscape of the scrapes and dry dark blood blotches caught her peripheral eye nonetheless. The haphazardness of halting her unavoidably mere pace gliding through the corridor, her lower deliciously plump lip twitched abruptly and manipulated the twist of a straight line, gauging her sheer nonplus and uncertainness behind the gloomy back story of the leery traces embroidering the room 405's door. The truth eventually was hidden in scarcely glimpsing or at least recalling bright, explicitly scintillating memories of those scrapes and blood blotches adorning the wooden material's furniture shortly before leaving the monumental building for a brief jog. Little did she know if either one of the clients of the hotel refilling the patchy hollow of the despondent, fiendish emptiness possessed any unimaginable personality traits leaning to psychotic or socipathic's wing.

Without a second thought, the blonde retired back to her booked room and stepping inside when the prospect of the younger gentleman absent-mindedly, vastly affectionate stroke their ray of sunshine's short mop of crispy brown strands capping his scalp. Pristinely secure, slim fingers gingerly, solemnly cradled and grazed idly, tenderly the stray chestnut strands whilst flicking up his cinnamon brown jewels to bore into his wife's blushed complexion. A benevolently beatific, vague smile majestically lingered at the corners of his angelically pale-pinkish, cherub lips.