The Hiding

There are two thousand and fifty nine dots on the ceiling. I know: I've counted eleven times. They are all the same size – equivalent to the top of a pen – and distributed evenly across the entire space, like little soldiers lined in rank. The ones over near the door are the captains; the biggies. They have tall hats with fur on them like those guards in London and are shouting orders to the rest of the rows, their words being passed down through the ranks to the very bottom guys – the foot soldiers – who are right above me. 1

Or at least, that's what I imagine, because I got bored of plain dots half an hour ago.2

Dragging my eyes away from my little army for the first time in hours, I let the blue biological wonders sweep around the room. It doesn't take long: the only thing that Gerry's Drive-In Motel can boast, apart from a sign with three spelling mistakes, is complete anonymity. I guess beggars can't be choosers, but it would be nice if a five star hotels were the ones who didn't ask any questions. Sorry, says the Big Guy in the Sky, that particular accolade is left for dumps like this.3

I can't speak for the rest of the establishment (and I use that term loosely) but room eighteen looks as though it has been thrown up by an interior designer. And not one of those low class ones who do a half cocked job of ruining a room, but one of the truly great ones, who can make a whole house uninhabitable before breakfast.4

I was lying, with due dread and fear, on a bed (for lack of better word) I think may have been made out of diamond. Not in the sense that it was exotic and expensive, but in the hard and contoured sense, because those two adjectives were understatements in themselves when it came to the brown structure. 5

When I had first dared to lay on it, I wondered whether those legs started off brown or whether the creaks and groans that accompanied every movement weren't the only factor that attested to it's age. When I got a closer look at the sheets I decided I wasn't going to question cleanliness, condition or basic standards of anything anymore, for my own sanity: the material was a collage of mismatching stains. White, black, dark, light, big, small, suspicious: there were all types layered over each other on the brown sheets. 6

I made sure I couldn't see the pillow.7

Other furniture included a small chair and a rickety surface that liked to call itself a table. The interior designer had, of course, made sure they were significantly different shades of wood. We wouldn't want something to actually match the black carpet (filled with white threads I'm sure weren't supposed to be there) and the wallpaper that started as a horrid pink colour near the ceiling and slowly morphed into a detestable apricot, the further down you had the misfortune to look. 8

With a mental shiver I let my head twist back to point my eyes at the dots again: the most stomach-able part of the whole place.9

I reminded myself why I was here; why I couldn't go down, yell abuse at the owner, and storm out. 10

I was a wanted man.11

Not wanted as in loved my millions and adored by more, but wanted in the sense 'we want you to share a cell with a guy called Bubba for, oh, say, twenty years or so'. That last speaker was a policeman, who looked like a footballer (and had the prerequisite lack of grey matter, scruffy face and 'duh' look), in-case you were wondering. 12

A week ago, my perfectly normal life had been turned upside down and shaken pretty damn hard until every drop of both perfect and normal had been collected on the floor and burned until it was a sludge of memory snippets and long forgotten sensations. 13

I'd come home, just like any other day. Fought with the lock; kicked open the door; unloaded all of the things in my hands; called out to Amy, my fiance. It was a normal day, comparable to any other of the thousands I'd lived.14

Until, that is, I saw Amy lying on the living room carpet, turning an appealing cream a sickening red.15

The details are boring: shock, horror; cops come in guns drawn; hours in questioning; unhelpful lawyer; unlocked door; distracted guy at front desk; hotel hopping to keep one step ahead of them. Long story short: I was now on the run from the police, staying in motels like this one for a few nights before moving on to the next city, nameless and faceless. A shadow on society's struggle for perfection. A murderer.16

Or at least, that's how the public saw me: a demented, violent man who had, in cold blood, killed his fiance and stabbed her another eight times for good luck. In reality, I was a scared guy, like any other on the streets, mourning the love of his life while on the run from the cops.17

That was why I was hiding out in this *bunny*-hole. 18

See there are two parts to being a fugitive: the hiding and the running. Or perhaps you could call them two different types of fugitive, the hider and the runner. Whatever. My point is, the runner is proactive. He's the type that makes it to TV screens everywhere, in movies and shows, by trying to figure out who framed him or escape to Germany, or something. The hider is the guy who buckles down and, well, hides. He'll grab food when he can; sleep when it's safe; avoid guys in uniform. He won't try to get caught. But he's more realistic: he knows that one day he will. After all, it's a little hard for one man to outrun thousands. So he bides his time and enjoys things while he can.19

Just so you know, I was a hider. 20

At first, my head had been filled with all sorts of crazy plans: get out of the country, make it to Switzerland and settle down in the Alps or take one of the cops hostage and get him to tell me...something that will lead to something else which will eventually lead to the real guilty person. I had been a runner. 21

Now I was resigned to counting dots on the ceiling on crappy motel rooms; drawing patterns and making soldiers. I knew I would get caught. The question was when. Two seconds; five hours; three days; two weeks; a month: it didn't really matter anymore. I had nothing left to run for. 22

Most of my family and friends had been interviewed by overly zealous TV crews with fake sympathy, devious eyes and prying questions, and snippets of each made it to the evening news. Every single one condemned me; thought I had done it; wondered how they could have raised, helped, befriended or loved such a monster.23

They abandoned me. 24

I had no family (if they hadn't disowned me, I'd disowned them), no friends, no house, no possessions, no purpose. I had nothing to run for.25

I was just lying in random hotel rooms, waiting for the cops. Hiding but wanting to be found, if that even makes sense. 26

I sighed and turned back to the ceiling. The captains were now disciplining a private for having his shoelace undone. I felt for the dot.27

I was tucked away in the crappy motel room, escaping the truth and the situation as much as the cops. Escaping the fact my life had taken an unexpected turn in the opposite direction of perfect.28

I was a fugitive.29

I was a 'murderer'.30

I was hiding.31

The love of my life had been killed.32

The dots morphed together: eight ceiling panels into one dirty cream smudge, as tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision.33

I rolled over, ignoring the suspicious smell of the brown pillow, and let my eyelids fall shut, the fireworks of my imagination exploding on their new stage. 34

Maybe tomorrow I'd find something to run for; something to run towards, but for now, I was curled up in a crappy hotel room. 35

Hiding.