Invisible String. Stiles Stilinski (1)

vii. motel california

     "Derek's sister, Cora– No one knows anything about her, and she's Derek's sister."

     "Next, your boss," Stiles completed, completely oblivious to the surprised reaction from Scott. "My boss?!"

     "Yeah, your boss," Stiles nodded like it was the most normal assumption in the world. "I don't really like the whole Obi-Wan-thing he's got going on, you know? It freaks me out."

     Scott gave him a confused look causing a gasp to release from Stiles. "Oh, my God! Have you still not seen Star Wars? Even Amelie has seen it."

     Scott, amused with the repeated mention of the Nightly girl, smirked. "I swear, if we make it back alive, I will watch the movie.."

     "Who was the last one?"

     "Lydia," Stiles replied. "She was totally controlled by Peter, and she had no idea, so."

🥰

    Back with the girls, Amelie and Lydia headed down to the reception for some clean towels. Even with the obvious non-smoking signs, the towels smelled so bad of nicotine, almost like they were made of the substance.

     "Excuse me? The card on the dresser says we have a non-smoking room, but somehow," Lydia said, bringing the towels to her nose again. "All our towels reek of nicotine."

     "Sorry about that, sweetheart," The receptionist took the towels, a creepy smile etching his face. Amelie's eyes darted to the tube coming out of the woman's throat and breathed shakily.

     Amelie frowned at the place, and looked at the number behind the woman. "What's that? That number?" She asked.

     "It's kind of an inside thing for the motel. My husband insists on keeping it up," The woman explained, her voice raspy ( maybe from all that nicotine ).

     "What do you mean?" Amelie furrowed her brows.

     "It's a little bit morbid, to be honest... You sure you want to know?"

     "We've seen morbid, tell us."

     "We're not gonna make the top of anyone's list when it comes to customer satisfaction," The woman started, making Lydia scoff out an 'obviously' to which Amelie nudged her with her elbow. "But we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing little detail. Since opening, more than any other motel in California, we have the most guest suicides."

     "One hundred and ninety-eight?" Amelie asked, her breath shaking, as she looked at Lydia who had the same horrified expression.

     "And counting!"

🥰

     "One hundred and ninety-eight?" Allison repeated the number, calling out from the bathroom as she dried her hair.

     Yes, and we're talking forty years. On average, that's... four-point-nine-five a year, which is... actually expected," Lydia explained, sitting on the bed while Amelie leaned on the desk.

     "But who commemorates that with a framed number? Who does that? Who?" Amelie muttered, unable to grasp the concept.

     "All suicides?"

     "Yes. Hanging, throat-cutting, pill-popping, both-barrels-of-a-shotgun-in-the-mouth suicides."

     "Which... which one do you want?" A voice around them whispered, making Amelie turn around.