Becca
The motel room smells like cheap lemon disinfectant and damp carpet that’s seen thirty years of transient misery. And that’s the best that can be said about this f*****g dump.
Outside the thin glass window, the sky is a flat, bruised purple, heavy with rain that refuses to break. Inside, the only light comes from the buzzing yellow tube above the bathroom sink and the flickering neon sign from the gas station next door.
I sit on the edge of the sagging mattress, staring at my hands resting in my lap.
My knuckles are cracked and split, the skin around my fingernails scraped down to red, sensitive meat. My palms are raw, flaking, and dry from hours of coarse, stiff-bristled scrubbing with industrial lye soap.
I scrubbed until the skin peeled. I scrubbed until the water ran clear d
