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.