Ssenkrad
Creeno

«playing house: dean»

The motel walls shift, swirl.

The room goes from two with an adjoined bathroom to two twin beds to just a lonely, king sized bed.

The windows always show the same scene of road or empty parking lot, with hell's louder residents just outside.

The arguments come and go in different volumes, pitches, heat. Most often, it's the Big One, the One to End All Arguments, where you weren't there, but you could hear their voices as you came in moments too late. Sammy moves past, sometimes through you, and when he slams the door, your heart breaks just the same.

Other times, it's like the Big Empty, where sometimes, you thought the king-sized bed would swallow you whole if you let it. Or John is silent, exchanging no more words than he has to, and the silence stretchesandstretchesandstretches onward.

The worse, though, even worse than the Big One, is when the motel gets taller and you shrink and you smell your burning mother.

It's worse when sometimes, your mind plays tricks on you and MommyDaddySammy all die in one big fire that licks heaven and you are left all alone, right outside the door, unable to do anything but watch.

Then the walls shift and swirl and you welcome it.

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