L’Éternité Hôtel

   This is a short story I wrote for a quarterly 24 hour writing contest. I have not gotten the results yet. The contests are held here: http://www.writersweekly.com/misc/contest.php

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   Enide had never considered herself a very important piece of L'Éternité Hôtel; quite the opposite. Her daily routine was not very out of the ordinary; waking at a quarter to six, dressing in her usual black frock and cap, starting the fires in a few of the grand guest rooms, then returning to the lowest level of the hotel, often referred to as ‘L'Obscurité’, The Darkness, by the hotel staff, until she would be summoned to perform her evening tasks. Enide was not required to remain in ‘L'Obscurité’; some afternoons when she was feeling more sociable she would venture up into the lounge and plunk out a few tunes on the grand piano in the corner. Everyone was always quite impressed with her songs, and applauded graciously after each one came to an end. Enide was not terribly modest, and would swell with pride every time people would stand by the bench watching the ivory keys move with grace and passion. The visitors were always the most awed when Enide would perform a requested song, especially if it was very old tune.

 Enide had a great love for L'Éternité Hôtel. Erected in the early 1900’s and said to be haunted, its grand construction delighted each of its visitors thoroughly. Guests were treated with utmost care by the large team of employees, all striving to provide a quality experience for the company they received daily. Though the visitors never really saw the people working behind the scenes, they raved about the excellent service that was provided.

   Every so often an employee on the lower level would hear a soft thump, and a pot of fresh, white flowers would be discovered on the stoop of the hotel’s backdoor, with a room number printed on the small card attached to the stem. The staff member who found the pot was in charge of delivering it to the specified room along with the evening tray. Guests were delighted to find that a small pot of flowers had appeared on their nightstand with a tall glass of water and a small sleeping tablet, and were put at ease, knowing the hotel was thinking of them individually, which it certainly was. They would relax for a time, perhaps reading a poem from a deteriorating book on the large shelves lining the walls of each of the three-hundred ancient rooms, or seating themselves on the velvet cushions of the inviting chairs positioned around the fireplace. When their eyelids began to droop, they would wander over to the bedside, gently wash down the provided sleeping tablet with a gulp of cool water, and drift off into the deepest sleep they had ever experienced.

   Enide had discovered several pots of flowers over the many years she had served L'Éternité Hôtel. Each discovery caused her soul to leap with excitement. She enjoyed delivering the flowers very much and she looked forward to conversing with the hotel guests, for when they woke in the morning the first thing they would see was Enide smiling, welcoming them to a brand new start.

   L'Éternité Hôtel was very particular in the selection of its employees. There was but one requirement for employment, so while working there might seem like a privilege to some, most people who knew may not have the same view. The addition of a worker to the staff at L'Éternité Hôtel was very rare, for this reason the arrival of a new pot of white flowers was a cause for great excitement among the staff who had each received one prior to their employment.

   The downfall to employment at L'Éternité Hôtel was that once employed, they would never again step foot outside of the hotel. Enide often found herself longing to feel the warm sunlight against her skin, to take deep breaths of the crisp air and watch the world move around her. Now, she was only able to watch the world change by the visitors who stayed the night at her hotel. Enide was fascinated by the ever-changing fashions, and she kept a close eye on items that came back frequently, and was thrilled by the styles that never faded.

   Enide knew every corner of L'Éternité Hôtel. She had stepped on every floorboard, extinguished every light, and opened every window in the place. But there was one room that Enide was not allowed in, the Living Room. This room was completely off-limits to Enide and the rest of the employees of the hotel. Quite often a staff member would linger outside the door to the room and imagine the mysterious wonders that must lie beyond the solid wooden door. They longed always to enter the Living Room, but could not, for the employees of L'Éternité Hôtel were far from living.   

Slice

I shifted my legs to the ground and stretched them out. I was sitting on the couch with my best friend, watching a creepy episode of the Twilight Zone, the one with the creeper who stalks the chick on her way to Los Angeles, and it turns out that she is actually dead. Anyway, it was starting to get dark and I decided we should start watching a happier episode lest we get entirely freaked out and not be able to turn the lights off during our sleepover. “Addie, come help make dinner” Of course my mom would call me now. Perhaps it was actually a good thing; preparing dinner would take my mind off the horrors on the screen. All the same, I put up a fight. “But I have a friend over… she doesn’t want to help…” I knew it was a pathetic excuse for an excuse, but I really did not want to peel carrots while my best friend was over. “Sarah is a guest, she doesn’t have to help. Unless she wants to…” to which Sarah laughed and snuggled deeper into the fuzzy dinosaur quilt she was nestling in.

    I reluctantly stretched my arms above my head and, after recoiling in pain of hitting my knuckles on the table directly behind the couch, stumbled dizzily to my feet. I adjusted my skinny jeans so they were not riding up past my belly-button and slid to the kitchen in my overly-large socks. My mother met me with a head of cauliflower and a large knife.  Now, for the record, I had never successfully butchered a head of cauliflower, still have not mastered the art to this day. I stressed this fact to my mother, whose usual reply was “It will be a learning experience!” She didn’t disappoint me. “There is always a time to learn! “ She replied, and handed me the large white plant and the weapon. 

   I studied the cauliflower intently before slicing into it, considering the quickest way to put it out of its misery. “Addie, stop stalling and cut the cauliflower!” my mother was apparently in no mood for strategizing. I decided the best way to kill the poor vegetable was to cut it straight in half, which I proceeded to do. The knife sliced through the white meat of the head of cauliflower with a satisfying crunch.  The head split in half and fell in opposite directions on the cutting board. I now inspected the two halves and pondered the correct procedure from here on. I was clueless, so I requested advice from a much wiser vegetable surgeon. “Figure it out” my mother replied to my question, so I picked up one of the halves in my left hand, holding it securely in my palm.

      Gripping the large knife in my right hand securely, I slowly lowered the shining blade to the stem of the miserable plant. My plan was to remove it much like you would remove an apple core, making a round scooping motion until only the little sprouts were left. Like I said, that was my plan. However, it did not end up going as smoothly as I made it sound.  

   As the knife began its plunge into the white juicy meat, everything began to move in slow motion. The knife blade picked up speed and, instead of turning to complete the scooping motion, shot straight down, through the stem, through the sprouts, through my palm. Interestingly enough, it didn’t hurt. It stung a little bit, but it was mostly just shocking. Nobody else witnessed my moment of brilliance, so I dropped the knife and the butchered vegetable on the counter and looked into the deep gash, which was beginning to fill with hot blood. For a split moment I could see the pale pink muscle before it was flooded in dark red blood which proceeded down my palm and started to drip off my hand.  “Oh crap” was all I could manage to whisper at the sight. “What did you do?” my mother asked without even looking. “I sliced more than the cauliflower!” I yelled, but by this time I was already through the dining room and up the stairs in the bathroom, smashing cotton balls and Kleenex’s to absorb the waterfall of red in my palm.  I heard my mom shriek below me as she found blood on her kitchen knife.  “Now who is going to cut the cauliflower for dinner?” leave it to my sympathetic mother. Anyway, the doctors whipped out their needles and planted three blue stitches in my palm (which were accompanied by seven evil shots) and wrapped it in several layers of purple bandage and I was sent home to eat the cauliflower, which Sarah had been set to prepare after my accident.

The Final Final

   I scroll down the page anxiously, foot tapping furiously on the wheel of my deskchair, doublechecking all of my answers. Well, it is more like skimming the page, making sure all the little blue bubbles are filled in. To my horror, I find one empty. Fighting the heart attack that grips my chest, I gently hover my mouse over the empty bubble and press my finger down on the button, filling it with the grey-blue circle like all of the rest on the page. I survived. I continue scrolling down the page, and to my relief, there are no more blank bubbles. I stop at the bottom of the page, staring at the rectangular button displayed on the screen, grey with a blue border, reading in bold text "Submit Answers". My adrenaline surges, and I hesitate, cursor hovering over the button, highlighting it and making it jump out from the page slightly, as if calling to me, begging me to click on it. I look at the clock; it is 10:17. The test took me just over one and a half hours. Yesterday it took me nearly three. I wonder for a moment why this test came with so much more ease today, but it is most likely due to the freshness of my brain in comparison to it's dullness the previous night.

    I continue to stare at the page, trying to summon up the courage to put enough pressure on my right index finger to end the suspense and receive my grade. But something inside of me is preventing me from doing so. I lean back into the firm cushion on the back of the deskchair and close my eyes, rubbing my palms over them and smearing my imperfect eyeliner applied two hours ago. Keeping my eyes closed, I run my fingers through my hair and think about the first part of the Spanish final I took first thing this morning, the speaking exam. I had not done the best, the pressure made me twitchy and drove my heartrate through the ceiling. As my teacher turned on her iPad and located the recording device she would use to record the exam, I felt a surge of nerves and emotion, accompanied by a wave of tears that tried to fight its way up over the rim of my eyes. Why am I crying? I asked myself, looking at the mauve wall and pushing the tears back down. My teacher sat down across the table from me, and pressed the 'record' button on her evil iPad with it's evil whiteness and evil red recording button. It looks completely evil, staring at me on the table, sitting quiet and ominous, watching. I shudder inwardly and turn my attention to my teacher, who is smiling, obviously excited to see what I have learned in these eleven weeks.

   "Hola, como te llamas?" she says, to which I reply with a simple "Mi llamo Adelaide."

   I am then quiet for several minutes. My teacher points to the paper in front of me, indicating that I should start talking. I look at the list, it is the same list she handed us in class two days previously.

• Tell me about yourself
• Tell me about your family
• Tell me about your daily routine
• Tell me about your future plans and obligations
• Compare aspects about things interesting to you
• Use superlative statements about certain things in your life

    Naturally, all the sentences I had composed last night at nearly midnight decided to grab their bags, tip their hats, and bid me an ironic 'Adios!'. So I decide to stare at the paper for a few minutes, feeding my teacher a few 'ummm.. ummm...ummm's' while I chase down my retreating compositions. Thankfully, I have longer legs, so I eventually am able to grab one and spit it out, not pausing in my chase of the rest. "Soy de Omaha. Soy alta y delgada. Estudio espanol." My teacher nods encouragingly with each sentence I slowly give her. "Mi padre se llamo es Neil. Soy alto y delgado." Did I really just re-use the same adjectives?  "Mi hermano se llamo es Oscar. Soy alto y uh.... umm... flaco!" Different adjective, success!

   It all started to really go downhill when I got to the comparison section. Because suddenly, The Beatles did not want to be compared to One Direction, even if they were mas talentoso. And my brother resented being menos alto que yo. So most of it turned into babbling, a mixture consisting of 40% espanol, 50% uh-umm-ah, and 10% awkwardly trying to decide whether to look my teacher in the eyes, or stare at the wall. I didn't even want to think about the superlative section. It was a virtual nightmare. Making things up on the fly works fantasticallly for me...in English.

   Finally, I glanced at the evil iPad of evilness. The evil timer on the evil screen tells me that I have been blabbing for five minutes and forty seconds, which means I have met my time. I don't even have to use my last few sentences, which decided to come back to me. I mutter one final "Mi amiga Sara es la mejor amiga" and smile at my teacher. She stares at me for a few seconds before muttering "Si?" making sure I don't want to add anymore horrific grammar to the recording. I reply "Si!" and hop up out of my chair, thanking her and grabbing my backpack, and then bolting out of the classroom Adios, windowless cinderblock cell! I smile at my classmates sitting in the hall nervously, telling them it is time for the next victim. Later, suckers! I head into the bathroom for no apparent reason, 'cause I don't have to pee. I hang my backpack in a stall anyway, and lock the door, immediately drowning in the waterfall that cascades down my cheeks. My sides heave and I don't give a crap about the mascara that is certainly streaming down my face now. I look up at the ceiling of the bathroom and smile so broadly, I think my teeth are going to fall out of my gums. I continue sobbing, trying to figure out if I am happy, sad, or a messed up combination of the two. I still don't know what caused all the emotion (PMS?), but all I know is it was overwhelming. It felt really, really, good. I felt like I was shedding some of the stress from these eleven weeks. Which was a lot.

   "Excuse me, are you alright?" the man from the front desk is tapping on my shoulder. Snapping out of my daydream, I realize there are tears on my cheeks, and one glance at my reflection in the window in front of me shows me the horrible expression that is on my face. I tell the man I am fine, and quickly check out of the Acedemic Resource Center. That will be quite enough of that.