Therapy Bits

The knock came at midnight.

I wasn’t expecting anyone, but the hotel hallway was quiet, and loneliness makes you polite. I opened the door halfway. The man on the other side wore the hotel uniform—black vest, gold name tag, tray in hand.

“Compliments of the manager,” he said.

I started to say he had the wrong room, but then I saw the gun, small and black, half-hidden behind the tray.

“Inside,” he whispered.

I obeyed. I always do what soft voices ask.

He told me to sit, then locked the door and pulled the curtains tight. The air conditioner hummed like nothing was wrong. He set the tray down. Beneath the silver dome was a phone—my phone—and a note in my own handwriting: Don’t scream. You know why.

My throat closed. I hadn’t written that note, but I recognized the looping letters, the smudge of ink.

He smiled like he’d just checked in. “They’ll be here soon,” he said. “You’ll tell them everything. Exactly like you rehearsed.”

I tried to remember when I had rehearsed anything.

Downstairs, a siren wailed. Upstairs, the man poured me water from the hotel carafe. “Drink,” he said. “You’ll need your voice.”

I drank. It tasted like tap water and déjà vu.

When the door burst open minutes later and the red lights flooded the room, I realized I was the only one they saw.

And I was still holding the gun.

Three Things Challenge #MM218 | pensitivity101