Page 44 of Crybaby

A strangled moan suddenly leaves her, before she shoots upward, a guttural scream tearing from her lungs. She frantically peers around, on the defense, and I know here, now, that someone fucking hurt her, and hurt her fucking badly.

I wanted to believe that maybe her injuries were self-inflicted. That maybe she got herself into trouble by setting something on fire.

But no, that scenario is one that would make Walt Disney proud.

This is stuff that lines the mind of the vile and depraved, and Darcie is living proof that evil fucking exists.

“Stop looking at me,” she angrily says, folding her arms across her chest.

She flinches, and I know she’s in pain. She was running on adrenaline, but now that that’s worn off, she is going to be reliving everything that happened. And when she does, I don’t want to be driving one hundred miles an hour.

I take a sharp left and detour down a bumpy road. We both jerk to every pothole I drive over, but Darcie doesn’t complain. She simply stares out the windshield, crossed-legged with a blank look on her face. However, when her lips twitch, I know her mind is running a race she’s already won.

A derelict motel soon comes into view.

Truck drivers and five-dollar hookers only use this place as sleeping in a cardboard box by the highway would be preferable to staying here. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

I pull up around the back, needing to keep the stolen car out of sight—not that anyone would come out here. But I still need to be careful.

The motel sign has long stopped flashing, but every so often, the T on the sign buzzes to life, shrouding the parking lot with a flicker of red.

Darcie jolts when the T suddenly flickers. “Fuck you, T. You lost your chance to shine long ago. Always trying to steal the limelight, aren’t you?”

If I don’t get her inside, that T will signify what we will be in—trouble.

“Let’s go.” I open the door and step outside, knowing better than to offer to help her. The last time I did that, I got both cheeks slapped.

The gravel crunches under her bare feet as she follows, but she doesn’t complain. Compared to the rest of her injuries, I suppose this is a walk in the park.

The stars have gone into hiding, and we walk in almost complete darkness to the front door. The bell sounds like it’s about to be sick as I open the door, and that seems fitting, seeing as this décor is enough to make anyone want to puke. And the smell…it smells like stale beer and cat piss.

“Wow,” Darcie gushes from behind me. “Don’t go all out on my account.”

This place looks like a hunting lodge on steroids. Not sure who decorated it, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an animal activist because the furnishings consist of a lot of camouflage and stuffed animal heads. The tall lamp in the corner of the room looks like it was bought from the Ed Gein estate.

And on cue, speaking of serial killers…

A man waddles out from behind a frayed red curtain, wearing a tuxedo. A snort escapes Darcie. I need to get her into a room, and now.

“Good evenin’,” the man, whose name tag reads Earl, says. “Are you here to fix the shower in room eight?”

I have no idea if this is code for something other than I am a fucking crazy bastard. But I entertain him nonetheless.

“I tell you what, I’ll fix your shower if you give us a room and forget you ever saw us?”

Earl peers over my shoulder. On instinct, I sidestep, so he can’t see Darcie. But that doesn’t mean he can’t hear her.

“Nice suit,Earl. Where’s the party at? I had a pretty dress. But it’s now ruined…”

Earl’s tuxedo looks like it’s never been washed, and his white shirt has a smear of ketchup down the right lapel. The jacket itself has layers of dust on it, as well as fuzzballs. And his bow tie is askew.

This would be fucking comical if not for the fact that I know Darcie is seconds away from losing her shit.

Reaching into my pocket for my wallet, I slap a hundred-dollar bill onto the counter, a plume of dust floating into the air. Earl reaches for it with his bony, nicotine-stained fingers.

I watch as he retrieves a silver key from the wall behind him with a fluffy white rabbit foot keychain. “Room five.”

He places it on the counter, his beady eyes peering between me and the key.

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