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Heartbreak Hotel by Demetria Dawn

Heartbreak Hotel


There is something disturbingly comforting about the temporary nature of hotel

rooms.



How each visit is the opposite of a promise, fleeting moments not to be taken

seriously. How a person can be present one day and then gone the next, each

numbered stay is a contradiction of permanence, a reassuring uncertainty of the

future.


They all check in with high hopes and check out with pitiful promises, commitment

issues akin to midnight ventures from hearts that no longer beat for love.



Lonely, idle souls booking double occupancies in advance. Overstaying affairs and

under-staying welcomes. Restless sleeping, mindless dreaming of faceless,

nameless strangers within four walls.


The feeling of loneliness becomes a comfort. Isolated hearts seeking room service—

desperate to loan important amenities such as emotional availability. 


Honesty becomes a liability, excavated from harrowed hearts in exchange for

secrecy.


No shows are non-existent, residents religiously present at their profligate

rendezvous. Walk-in guests, leisure travellers or corporate clients, self-checking in

with their late night endeavours.



The porter escorts the guests with heavy hearts locked in luggages. He is tipped

generously in exchange for a silence that does not belong to him. With suitcases

secured shut, his lips are sealed with them.



The housekeeper tends to the homewrecking secrets and keeps them hidden in

between the linen, tucked under pillowcases and concealed in duvet covers. She

strips the sheets from the bed the next morning, a laundry of lies, to be washed off in

acquittal.


The concierge knows of the clandestine affairs. Folios of intimacies from guests are

logged in blanket reservations, long term accommodation discounted at a price—

complimentary of broken hearts.



It’s a five-star hotel and scandalously so. Covetous business bodies with their

corporate promises and white-collar lies, they profit from bad habits and bleeding

hearts. 



There’s a method to the madness, a system for the spellbound sanity. Walls do have

ears and they do more than listen. They talk in tandem and sell your secrets.


“Sorry, no vacancies.”



Demetria Dawn is a British-Filipino writer based in London, England. A lover of modern art and classic literature, her written works are inspired by angsty nuances and chaotic infatuations of the everyday. Twitter: @ddtuzara Instagram: @ddtuzara Attachments area


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