He stared mindlessly at the television with a solid patch of drool caked onto his sunken face. It had been three days since he had gotten off of the couch and anxiety was beginning to get to him. The lights were out and all that accompanied him was his flickering television and gallons of low grade vodka, an early retirement gift from the military. Empty bottles covered the vomit stained floor as crates towered above the morose figure enveloped in the latest breed of educational programming, it was nothing but low grade porn but it was by far the most soothing thing on he thought. “You can never go wrong with PBS.” His mother’s words still jingled in his head long after her passing.
It took all that was in him to peel his sweaty body off of the sunken vinyl. After three minutes of pushing and pulling he became unstuck and stooped over to catch his breath. After hacking up ten percent of what was left of his lungs he groped in the darkness for a light switch. Each grasp seemed futile as with every motion bought him to his knees. After ten years in the army one would assume that a person would be capable of simple tasks but all that was left was a sulking mass of bitterness and regret.
After what seemed an eternity the light was finally switched on revealing the grotesque collage of utter decadence. Forty watts illuminated this once suitable motel room that hosted throngs of people before the war. On the mirror the words “Best Western” barely held firm marking some sort of identification with a world that was once whole. That was all that was really left. Clothing was scattered on the floor, golden brown t shirts stained with sweat and liquor seemed to be the majority of articles with a pair or two of ripped jeans lightly sprinkled on top. The stench that rose was unbearable, at least for the first three months, now it had become one of mild security.
The only working light was a centralized dome on the ceiling and by some miracle had not gone out after what must have been decades of use. The murky light pieced through the cigarette smoke canvassing the orb and gave the room a warm feeling, well, warm like a funeral home. Many complained of the smog over the cities, those who did should be thankful that it had not succumbed to the hovering musk of this room, good old number 238.
The wall paper had been long since peeled away but this room held its own on interior decoration. Across the entire wall was written word for word, the book War and Peace. The current resident forged it over the course of six months; not that he particularly was a fan of the book but it gave him a place to escape from his nightmares. On top of that he had been nicknamed “Tolstoy” while he was in the army due to his love of literature and most importantly his avid affection for vodka. This was the only name he knew, the old one was long gone with the rest of his memories. Surrounded by scrawling from the motherland, there was one part of the room which was entirely different. When one entered that room the AC unit was directly to the right and right behind that was a patch of red ink. This ink was not poetic, organized, or tastefully written. Over and over again it read, “GOD HELP ME!” In moments of desperation Tolstoy would cling to his corner and madly scribble out his cries hoping one day they would be answered.
The only other red thing in the room was an old vinyl couch. He had no need for a second bed and since he found such a lovely couch he figured that it would make a might fine replacement. He eyed it one day as he walked down a deserted street sitting in the living room of a fairly nice house. The door had been broken down and clothing and toys were strewn across the front hallway. Upon entering the house he headed straight for the couch and promptly brushed off all of the shotgun shell casings that laid on top of his new trophy. For eighteen months the motel room had been home. Most of the building had been destroyed by shrapnel and only drifters and junkies wandered in and out. Tolstoy was grateful for working plumbing and electricity and spent the majority of his days tucked away in his hole basking in the light of the vintage Panasonic television. Tonight however, was a night to get out, even the stench was beginning to gnaw away at Tolstoy’s senses, some fresh air would do him good.
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