Quarantine

The man sat idly, he twiddled his thumbs on the end of the bed that faced the door to his room while the red digits on the clock read 5:44. At any moment that envelope would slide under the door frame and ravenously the man will tear it open to see what’s been said in the other rooms.

The man thinks better of himself and decides he will hide his anger. Who’s to say that one of the other guests trapped in this mess isn’t in the room right next to him? The man hears the footsteps of the concierge close in, two knocks and a “dinner ballot” is called at the door. At the same time, the envelope is slipped under the door. Seemingly thicker than last week, one can only assume it holds more comments as well.

In the beginning days of the pandemic, he would sit and read that same paper from that day over and over again. Inevitably the man asked for books and other such things, it took a while for the hotel to get them as the world had come to a halt. First was The Count of Monte Cristo. The man had to reread that twice before he started to receive more books. The books, which at first had been neatly stacked and organized into read and not read piles, had started to meld together. The room’s lone desk was the only sorting method anymore as there were now too many to stack anywhere conveniently.

His window was the most unfortunate part of his extended stay here. Unlucky enough to get a window facing into the hill behind the hotel, he never got a chance to see the quiet streets of the highway town. Even that scenery could’ve kept him sated for a while.

After eating his breakfast, he now decides to open the envelope of the previous day’s discussions. Topics of the state of the world during this time are littered with people praying every day that it will get better again, and that they’ll be able to go back into the world. Others mention of conspiracy that the government is fundamentally changing the world while they’re forced to not see it. Other’s and more specifically one person, whose handwriting is curled in areas, laughs at everyone. The man has a deep fiery anger that wells up when he sees their writing under another resident’s writing. They only point out others’ stupidity and is presenting as stupid themselves, the problem, of course, the man thinks that stupid people are too stupid to see that they’re stupid, so ultimately they see themselves as smart and righteous.

There are a few polls regarding temperature regulation and future meals, the polls require you put your reason for voting the item you have chosen. Without fail, when the previous poll results come back, the resident with the curled handwriting has made some comment regarding what other people have selected. They seem to always avoid popular opinion, and inevitably turns people from voting for what they know to be their preferred choice to avoiding criticism by voting for something else.

It seemed like a game they were playing. Just trying to control a hotel seemingly full of people trapped by circumstances. Some narcissist or sociopath needing their sick entertainment.

Nothing was censored, the hotel staff showed every rambling and otherwise. Since the quarantine, at least four residents had either stopped writing comments or worse. The man kept track in his way with a weekly checking of the voting records. At first everyone was voting, but eventually people would skip votes. Generally, however, everyone would vote at some point during the week, the issue now was the dedication that this other individual would go to harass people into following their will.

The man himself had been targeted by the curled handed devil. They often would seek out any comment made by the man and try and tear them to shreds for anything that they would say. It got to the man, he didn’t expect ANY hostility considering their circumstances. When the he would try and reason with them, the individual would just laugh and call them out further. This was when that feeling that would start in the pit of the stomach and rise to the bottom of the chest and compress outwards started. The man noticed his hand trembling when he would read and respond to the individual. Eventually he convinced himself to stop responding. Not engaging didn’t mean that the person would stop their tirade against them. As was proof today with the man’s vote for chicken Milanese being brought upon the flames for no other reason than the thrill of it seemingly.

The intensity in the man’s chest rises, it never gets better, even when he knows he won’t respond. Those letters emboldened a seething heat within himself. He grips hard on the envelope and goes to whip it at the ground, it’s lack of density causes it to almost float delicately to the floor. Angered by this the man grabs the pen from the small stationary cup and flings it hard towards the door of his makeshift cell.

The man sat at the small desk and breathed hard in and out. He tried to force down the intense emotion that had crawled its way into his throat and head. This person, whoever they were, had wriggled their way into his skull. They were targeting the man in the lone hotel room as he felt his mind slowly slipping with each day spent isolated.

On the sheet; “Of course this asshole thinks we should eat chicken Milanese, if he could deep throat Gordon Ramsey I’m certain he could suck the Michelin stars off his chef coat.”

The pen against the door wasn’t enough to satisfy the man’s rage, but just as he went to lash out further, the usual knock at the door happened.

“Hello! Your food is outside! Please grab it in 60 seconds, once grabbed please close the door immediately! Thank you for your patronage we will get through this together.”

When he was there, the concierge was gone. The man’s anger was tempered by the coming meal he was about to eat, although not the chicken Milanese he wanted, but there was nothing wrong with Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo he supposed.

He watched the ticking hand of the clock move 60 individual times as he collected his food.

He thought as he ate the food that he really can’t even remember what the concierge looked like. His hair was a curly light brown, he was average height. He tried to remember checking in and if anyone in that lobby at the time matched the description of someone so callous. The handwriting was neat and almost artistic in its curls and dips. He pondered the thought as he sat at his window and looked at the familiarly weather rocky hill he had grown so accustom to.

As the pasta sat heavily in his stomach, he inched his way into his bed and turned the TV on, he threw the handful of books that were in there onto the floor and fell asleep.

He dreamed of the top of the hill, cars driving by him and honking as he stood in the centre of the highway. He was naked and stumbling around cars travelling at incredibly high speeds around him. He’s only awoken when he’s struck hard in the side by a scrambling M3.

Thrust awake by the sudden impact and momentarily assuming his death he gasps hard and nearly flings himself out of bed. With his heart beating hard, he realizes he’s forgotten to leave his empty plate and used cutlery out for the concierge to collect.

As he collects his plate from his little desk, the envelope’s contents are splayed out and the words nearly illuminate in front of him. The letters dancing a fiery and mocking dance.

Hardly lucid and without a shirt, the man creaks the door open. He isn’t sure how yet, but he will figure out which room this bastard is staying in, if not to just scare the daylights out of them so just maybe they will stop their incessant harassment of the man.

It’s quiet, not that it’s been anything else recently. The long uniform hallway of the hotel, with its fleshy wallpaper and patterned floor appears to pulsate and move around him as he slowly creeps down the hall.

As he moves towards the elevator he makes sure to stay quiet, while the phones hadn’t worked in some time, someone seeing him out of his room at all would cause much trouble for the man. He was improvising his every step, he made his way to the staircase. He wanted to get to the first floor to hopefully enter the office of the hotel. As he walked to the end of the hall, he passed the ice machine room, the low buzz of the machine was the only form of sound on the floor.

As he continued on the realization that he may be watched dawned on him. There on the ceiling near the intersection of the main hallway and his perpendicular side hallway were three white domes budding from the ceiling. Cameras aimed in all directions, one of which was staring at him. It was far too late to concern himself with this and he continued along to where the two hallways met. On his right was the entrance to the stairwell. As the man went to grab the handle immediately, a problem presented itself. The handle wouldn’t turn, seemingly locking him on his floor.

Quickly without putting too much thought into his movements, the man decides rather quickly to run to the elevator. If the staircase door on this side were held shut somehow than it would only follow that the other side would be as well. The bellhop, however, had to get the food up and down so there was some logic behind the elevators operating. As he presses the elevator call button, the silence of the floor was momentarily halted by the sounds of the machinery of the elevator. Whirring to the floor and with a rather loud ding, the elevator arrived without issue doors opening as the man rushed into it.

His heart was racing. In the corner of the elevator sat the same white security camera that lined the halls of his floor and likely every other floor. He wasn’t so sure of the time, he’d left in such a huff as he awoke. The elevators display slowly counting down, he’d head towards the office and hope to find any documentation that may state the residents of the hotel.

It wasn’t long before the doors re-opened and presented the lobby. In front of the man was the entrance. As he had suspected, the doors appeared barred shut. He had no ambitions of escape just yet, he had important business to take care of, a person who had been making his life hell for his entire imprisonment here in the hotel. The lobby of the hotel was in disrepair. It was nearly pitch black, but for a small table lamp illuminating an incandescent yellow glow from its bulb. The lamp, situated on the check-in desk, drew the man’s eyes to the only other light in the vicinity. The office behind the check-in desk. This was the only spot the man felt he could figure out where his tormentor could be found. He’d go through the receipts and pray to God that they signed for a credit card transaction. If not it would be off to the missing room keys and finding a master key himself to quietly start entering rooms.

Slowly creeping towards the front desk he thought of the bellhop and where he might be at a time like this. Surely he had a room of his own that he stayed in after they were locked down here. There was little room to think of these things. If her were caught out of his room, the authorities would surely be called to the hotel to deal with him. His decision may be a final one, but it’s better than being cooped up in a room having to read this instigator and aggravator go after every one of his ideas.

Just as he reached the front desk he heard some stirring in the office. A chair squeaked and dress shoes hit tile flooring and began moving towards the office entrance. The slow steps got closer as, ducking in front of the main desk, the man put his hand over his mouth and tried to remain as still as possible. The darkness of the night had seeped into the lobby front desk, and in near disrepair with virtually no lights on in the foyer he had a chance not to be seen.

Out of the office strolled the bellhop, his shoes clacking on the tile slowly as he made his way to the desk. The man was having a hard time controlling his breathing as he could feel the looming presence of the bellhop hovering above him. He couldn’t make him aware of his presence. The clicking of the shoes go closer to the man until his darkened body moved beyond the threshold of the desk. Slowly he made his way towards the stairs. In time with his movements, the man positioned himself on the opposite side of the desk as the bellhop was.

Waiting for a while, he heard the chiming of the elevator arrival. The mechanical whirring of the door closing was the man’s indication that he was at least mostly safe to roam around the office. The tiniest of illuminations peaked through the door, a small table lamp was lighting the dark office. The desk was coated in paper and envelopes, while the man had a good idea of the number of individuals in the hotel at the time, there was seemingly more than he could’ve imagined during the initial shutdown.

With no organization to the pages on the desk, he decided to check the cabinets along the wall. His pace began to quicken as each minute passed. There was truly no way to know when the bellhop would be back, it could be hours, or he merely could’ve gone to check one thing.

Unfortunately, the man himself had no name to associate with so he had to view every file’s signature block and pray he could recognize it from any other one. How many threats or insults had he seen written in that arrogantly eclectic writing? Goaded and incensed the feeling in the man’s chest returned. As luck would have it, in the dim light, he made out on the first sheet in the twirling prodding typography. As he brought it over, however, he noticed something. On the floor, a different sheet included the same twisted calligraphy that donned both the floor of the unit the man was staying in, but also the one in his very hand at that moment. Many of the sheets included this signature.

The man stood in horror as the signatures around him seemed to swirl jeer and taunt him. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the only other individual he’d interacted with, the bellhop, could’ve been intentionally riling him up. It’s likely that many of the other individuals within the hotel felt the exact same as he did, that this individual was slowly making them lose their mind with their incessant negativity and acts of passive aggression over text. The man’s anger began to well even further. He’s breathing fast and heavily. He stumbled his way to the desk to get a better look at the signatures, but his heart nearly stopped as he looked at what was strewn across there. A stack of envelopes sat by a small drafting location on the desk. Next to these envelopes was a stack of about 40ish sheets of paper covered in, a full upper and lowercase alphabet, several notes on an individual characteristics and personality, and a name. Names he’d never heard before. These papers were heavily marked up and towards the centre of the drafting area on the desk was tomorrow’s breakfast poll, with several of the usual comments written out.

The man was woozy and could scarcely wrap his mind around what was going on. His next instinct was to race to the door and see what he saw outside. He’d merely seen the rock face of the hill next to him for his imprisonment here. Out the front door, the parking lot had shown early signs of being grown over, out of concrete cracks protruded thin green weeds. The lot itself was devoid of visible vehicles. It truly looked as dead as it had been the day he arrived at this makeshift refugee spot.

He heard the chime of the elevator bell. The clacking of some fancy shoes, and as he looked out into the distance, a headlight could be seen moving across the horizon.

The man felt his anger wipe away and his cold interior felt like shadows dancing against his chest. The clicking drew closer.