Six Sentence Stories

I beam as I sign my entry in the hotel guestbook.

The receptionist stares at me dispassionately but I continue smiling as I casually mention that I might go for a stroll to see the hotel’s undoubtedly lovely surroundings. He still does not move, so I laugh, shrug and turn back to the guestbook as though I had only been kidding.

Flipping back through the book, I look at the now familiar entries of previous guests. This hotel only held one guest at a time, and so most entries were a series of daily compliments from one person that end when they were not effusive enough or hid a plea for help – but either way the blood spray signalled the end of that guest’s stay.

I flip back to my eighteenth entry and nod at the receptionist as I walk back to my room, quickly looking at where the front door once was.

I’m certain that I’ve lost my mind.

My husband thinks I must have started hoarding items while he’s been at work, but I honestly don’t remember buying any of this.

I don’t understand why I bought a dog bed and dog food when we’ve never had a dog. I don’t know how or when I decorated the spare room for a baby girl – I’ve never even been pregnant, for God’s sake!

As I go to my bedroom to rest I am shocked to see the amount of men’s clothing in the wardrobe and I am sure that I need to seek help. At least no one will know I’ve lost my mind, as I have always lived alone.


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