The room is at the end of the hallway.


I just hate hallways.

I really hate hallways in hotels.

The man behind the desk just told me that my room was at the end of the hallway.


Oh well, what better way to deal with ones fears than to face them head on right? I’m not sure who said that first but from my current vantage point, I think they can kiss my ass. Face your fears they say, well who the hell made them the authority? As cliche as it sounds, I will still have to ask, who the hell are they, anyway?

I have always hated hallways for as long as I can remember, it’s something to do with growing up on the road with a traveling band or something perhaps. Always spending time on the road in various hotels with many hallways lining the past, always moving on from one group of rooms to another.

Always with hallways.

Always with many doors.

Sometimes those doors had hidden messages that came in the form of drunks, pedophiles, hookers, or just plain dumb ass individuals that like to pick on kids that really shouldn’t be walking in hallways alone.

That still doesn’t deal with the current situation that I found myself in. I just checked in and the room number is 224, which is at the end of this hallway. This poorly lit, smelly hallway in which many people pass through on a daily basis, from the maids that purport to clean the rooms, to the drunks that sleep of the six-pack of beer they drank at the nearby bar because they are away from home and can only fight the loneliness with booze.

Yeah these hallways make me shake and quiver in fear for some reason.

The first step is always the hardest.

The next fifty or so aren’t too bad.

Room 216, the door opens.

I pause.

I see the foot of some footed pajamas worn by a three-year-old girl start to come out before the voice of her mother stops her from going any further. The door closes abruptly.

I breathe again.

I take another step.

I inhale and notice a new scent, one a mix of stale cigarettes and fresh mint gum.

Room 222, three more steps and sanctuary awaits for another night.

The rope was made of nylon so that when it slipped over my head there was nothing to snag and slow down the progress to my neck, not that it matters much anyway since it takes less than a second. I will be dead in approximately three minutes, unless something is done and done now.


The door opens and I open my eyes.

Closing the door allows me to return to reality and finally get my tie off.

I think I hate neckties more than hallways now.