by Amanda Paul
The floor is sticky sweet on my feet, the kind that suggests someone champagne bottled the room with soda. The Clorox smell is dense enough to suggest that a dead body was carted away by the Coroner early this morning. I find a scrap of cloth peaking from underneath the bed; surely it is too small to have once been a pair of underpants a former guest had worn. The worn bed spread is the same color of the vomit splattered in the lobby—pink with gold specks. I sigh. I should have paid the extra fifty bucks for a 5 star resort.
Amanda Paul is a creative writing major and journalism minor at Franklin Pierce University.