No Place By The Tree

The motel room stank of mildew, and cigarette smoke had seeped so deeply into the walls it felt like it was apart of them. A single bulb flickered above the bed, he didn't like it though, it revealed far more than the frayed wall paper. He sat slouched on the mattress, staring down at his phone. The screen glowed with a cold display, showing him how many times they didn't answer. He hadn’t left a voicemail. What would he say? Merry Christmas? Daddy loves you? I miss you? He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and walked toward the window. Snowflakes swirled outside, the parking lot lamp painting them gold against the night. Somewhere out there, his kids were sitting around a tree, opening gifts from another man who’d taken his place. He imagined their giggles, the soft shuffle of wrapping paper—Would they forget him all together? Turning back toward the room, his eyes landed on the counter by the bed. Among the takeout containers and crushed beer cans, the needle gleamed like an accusation. His stomach twisted. He could feel the pull of it, promising oblivion, a reprieve from the memories and their absence.