#dark!lewis pullman

Your knees hit the ground near his makeshift bed. He grabs your shoulders, pulling you closer. You can't make sense of what's happening. Your heart starts to beat a little faster. You glance around the room more. The picture of the woman to your right starts to look… familiar. A slight resemblance to Miles?

His head is in your neck. You can feel a faint dampness in the curve where his face rests. His arms wrapped around you. You can feel his chest rising, a noise coming from his chest—a slight whimper.

You pat his back, half comforting and half signaling to him to back off. He's so desperate for you. In a way, you are almost disgusted. He's crying. Yes, you comforted him at his lowest at the very beginning, but now it’s unappealing. Maybe it's the new context of the situation. Now you find him deplorable.

You can't help the gesture on your face—a wrinkle in between your eyebrows. Your lips are threatening to curl and reveal a flash of teeth.

You grab his upper arms, prying yourself away. Just far enough to look at his face. His eyes are wide and foggy. His chin shakes. His shoulders are hunched, making him seem smaller.

“Miles…” you say slowly. “What's going on?”

He swallows. “I… I need it. I need an escape,” he whispers to you.

You shake your head. “An escape from what?”

“It helps me forget. Forget the things I saw.” he looks away, seeming to focus on a crack in the ground. “The things I did”.

For the most part, you knew he was in the war. You knew he felt some guilt, but you were never given all the details. You never wanted to pry, fearing he would block you off. On the rare occasions you did talk about the war, his jaw would wind tight, and a film of haze would cover his eyes.

“I'm not the man you think I am.” his voice is barely audible.

You're right, you think; I didn't think this was what you were up to, but you don't say that to him.

Growing up, your parents and the people around you were conservative in their view. Those who participate in such activities are considered criminals in your hometown, and you held the same opinion, but now, someone in front of you made you feel different. This man didn't make you think criminal; rather, you felt immense pity.

“Say something…” he finally lets your arm go, his shaking hand grabbing at yours. “Please…”.

What can I say, you think?

“Help me,” he says urgently. “I don't want to be like this,” his voice breaking.

A weight settled in your chest. “Ok…ok. I think we can do something about this”. You give a short nod.

His shoulders seem to relax, and a small smile touches his lips.

______

Miles was different. He disappears and then reappears, seemingly clearer, and then gone again. You told yourself he was getting better; you want him to get better. Meanwhile, the hotel clings to you tighter. Your responsibilities are growing. Now, you're the one cleaning and making coffee. You didn’t think it was possible that the hotel could be even lonelier, but with Miles gone…

A ringing and the sound of the large brown doors being opened. You see a woman. Clean looking, polished compared to you. You wore the extra uniform that was kept behind the desk. It was ill-fitting and tight at the same time. She carried two large pieces of luggage by her side, and even though she looked more polished and clean compared to you, she reminded you of yourself; she carried an uncertainty and a bit of hope on her face.

Her heels click as she walks on the stones leading to your desk. She pauses as she eyes you.

“Welcome,” you introduce yourself as you force yourself to remain as cheerful as you can.

“Hello, I'm Claire... I'm looking for a room”.

“Of course.” you leave your desk. You give the same speech that Miles spoke when you first got here.

She nods, and her eyes dart around the lobby before they settle on your face. “Are you always alone here?”

You tilt your head. You open your mouth before closing it shut. Never, at any time since you arrived, did you think to openly question the loneliness.

“I mean,” she says gently, “it must get lonely. Managing this whole place by yourself.” She glances around, maybe to see if someone else might appear.

You shake your head and continue your smile. Deep down, it unnerves you. How can she read you so well? “Well, ma’am, I can help you sign in. The hotel has two options: California and Nevada”.

“I'll take California,” she says softly. It's the pricer option. You get her ready, and she signs the ledger. “You do a wonderful job at maintaining the place.” Her tone is sincere, with a hint of concern. You can't help the chill that runs up your spine.

You have never had a chance to see many guests. Maybe there is something that unnerves them when they arrive, but they always leave as quickly as they come. She turns around, her heels clicking on the worn stones. A brief connection vanished with her. You were alone again.

______

A day after Claire leaves, things turn back to normal. That's how you figured it was.

You finish mopping the grounds. And then you knock on the door right behind the desk, the door that hid Miles when you found him. You tug on your uniform. When you don't hear a response, you sigh, “Good night, Miles.”

You leave the coat and walk out of the lobby. The night makes you feel paranoid. The sounds of the crickets make you feel like you are in one of the few horror movies your parents allowed you to watch.

You get ready for bed—with a nightgown on. You stare up at the ceiling and roll to your side. You feel exposed and watched. You steady yourself and sleep alone on your mattress.

______

A dip in your bed and the low creak of the springs stir you. Not enough to jolt you awake but enough to pull you from the depth.

You feel a presence beside you.

Your eyelids are heavy. It feels impossible to keep them open. Each time you do manage to keep them open, the figure grows clearer.

Its Miles.

His pale skin glowed even in the dark. He reaches out a hand, his fingers brushing over your cheek. You try to pull away, but your body is so heavy.

The bed groans. He sits on the edge with you, his fingers continuing to brush your cheek. His breath is hot as he leans down. He's almost trembling. As you get more awake, you start to notice the look in his eyes. He looks rabid, an animal in a cage. He bites down on his lip. He looks like he is trying to hold himself back. His fingers continue to trace your jaw. He's gentle, but there's a certain urgency to his movements.

Your body is almost fully awake. You squint, trying to focus on him. You open your mouth, then close it; you lean away from his touch and force your hand to grab his hand and pull it away from your face.

He lets out a choked whimper and jolts back. He's breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He fidgets on the corner of the bed.

“Please…” he whispers, “don't pull away.”

"Wha... what are you doing?" you manage to say groggily.

Using all your core strength, you finally lift yourself up. You turn on the light next to your bed. Miles flinches from the brightness, and he comes into full view. He's sweating, his skin glistening, his hair is a mess, and his shirt is crumbled. He looks unhinged.

"Miles," you whisper as you lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I need you,” he says hoarsely.

“What do you mean?”

"I'm trying to get better, I really am... but I..." he shakes his head. "When I'm near you… it's the only time the noises stop."

“What noises?” you scoot closer to him. He looks to be on the verge of tears.

The noises. You can infer their meaning, but you don't voice that out loud. You don't want this, at least not like this, but you know what’s coming, and you don't pull away from Miles when he leans in to give you a kiss.

He’s holding your hand as your lips make contact. He pushes you down with a soft shove; it's not a lot of force, but your back practically bounces down the bed.

His lips are soft. The first time you did this with him, he was trembling. It felt like you were the one giving him something, but now his hands are everywhere, trembling not with fear but with desperation.

His hands land on the straps of your nightgown. You took your time to lower your own bra straps when you first got together, but now Miles almost yanks them down.

He pulls down, and you suck in the air as the wind hits your exposed chest. Your arms fold instinctively, but he takes hold of your forearms, prying them down.

He quickly unhooks it and tosses it aside. You gasped. His mouth lands on one of your buds, the flick of his tongue a wet pressure you recoil from as he sucks on them. Your pulse pounded. He moans into your chest, and you tangle your fingers into the back of his head, grasping at the soft hair, pulling not to encourage him but to pry him off.

His moans grow louder. He finally pulls away with a wet pop, his lips swollen and red—a cold, damp film on your chest where his mouth had been.

He looks feral, his eyes dilated and unfocused. He pulls down harder on your nightgown. “Please… I need more”.

Reluctantly, you shift onto your knees on the bed, slowly peeling the nightgown off, letting it fall before slipping out. You remain only in your panties, the only modesty left.

Meanwhile, without taking his eyes off you, Miles begins unbuttoning his shirt, pulling so hard that one of the buttons flies off. He gets off the bed to take off the rest, only remaining in his loose blue boxers. His erection already tenting underneath the fabric.

He climbs back on the bed, kneeling between your legs and crawling towards you. He grabs one of your calves, anchoring himself as he presses a kiss.

He's digging his fingers into your flesh. His eyes are fixed on your panties, and his breathing is heavy and uneven as he presses kisses along your calf. He moves up and kisses the inside of your knee, pulling them apart. Higher and higher he goes until he reaches your inner thigh.

You don't say anything. All of this is way too much. You want this to stop. Maybe under normal circumstances, this would be fine, but this isn't normal. Miles doesn't seem right.

“You…you want this, don't you? You do. You have to.” he rasps. He hooks his arm beneath your thigh, lifting it slightly as he buries his face in your crotch, inhaling deeply. He presses his face into the fabric of your panties, kissing and sucking through the material.

His nose pushes against your clit. His hot breath dampened the thin material.

“Miles, look at me. I don’t think this is a good idea. You don't seem well”.

He freezes, his face still buried. Then, slowly, he lifts his head up. His eyes meet yours. They're glassy, his eyes so dilated the blue in them almost gone.

You shake your head and sigh. You grab his head, trying to pull him up, but he doesn't budge.

“No,” he growls lowly. It's as if someone flipped a switch. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he shakes his head. “You said you’d help me. That you’d make me feel better”.

"Miles... I meant that I can help you get better. Not that I would make you feel better." you shake your head.

He ignores your words, pulls down your panties in a swift motion, and before you can react, he buries his face in between your legs. You gasp, and your head falls back toward the ceiling. His tongue pushes inside you roughly. He's kissing and licking like it's the only thing that's keeping him sane.

You scoot back, pushing with your elbows and heels to move back from his advances. His hands grip your hips tighter, holding you in place. His tongue is relentless. The slurping and his muffled moans filled in the silence of the room.

His hips rock into the mattress, humping it like a dog as if he couldn't control himself. His nose presses against your clit with each movement.

You feel yourself get wetter, and he spreads your legs farther. The creaks of the springs intensify with his speed. You can tell he's getting close.

And then it comes. You orgasm, and you feel your walls clenching. Your hands shoot down to grab Mile's hair, pulling. A loud moan is released from you.

Miles groans against you, his tongue still deep in you. Perhaps the sudden pull of his hair spurs him to chase his own release.

He gasps, and a slight tremble of his body tells you he's finished. He collapses in between your legs; he slowly lifts his head away from you. A wave of disgust washes over you.

He doesn't look at you, but you can see the red from his neck creeping up to the back of his ears. He slowly starts to pull away, his body shaking slightly. With his back turned away from you, he pulls himself into a ball. His knees to his chest, he begins rocking.

Morning.

You're awake, but you don't open your eyes. You can sense the time. The early light filters through the shut blinds and warms your face. As much as you don't want to move, your body aches —limbs begging for comfort. Still, you remain as you are.

You're not lying down on the bed—you're sitting on a loveseat, nightgown pulled on after Miles had his “event”. You feared he would cling to you, pull you back down—instead, he cried himself to sleep.

You didn't know what to expect. Perhaps a rustling of the covers or a snore, but there's nothing.

One eye cracks open. Squinting, you can make out a figure on the bed. A large lump with legs twisted, a lack of a visible head, and a body covered with pale, sprawled arms.

You lift your heavy head, inspecting the scene. Clothes lie on the ground. The light on the nightstand is still on.

You hear him then. A low groan escapes him.

Your heart jumps, no, it freezes. You hold your breath in. When nothing else comes, you peel away from the seat, careful not to activate the springs beneath you.

Still in your nightgown, you tiptoe your way to a robe and pristine white slippers laid on a stray chair and pull the strings tightly around your waist.

Using your fingers, you pry the door open. Dry heat and no wind attack your senses. You squint. You shut the door behind you with as much care as you had opening it. 

Detached from the room, you begin the slow walk to the lobby. You begin to think.

You knew you couldn't stay here; a disgust had been building since last night.

That feeling of comfort has vanished. If you leave, would Miles make it? Have a good life, I mean.

Cracks were already there when you got here, but you chose to ignore them. Miles would probably try to hold you back, but you couldn't have that happen.

If Miles stayed focused on the Hotel, managing it, a distraction, things would work out. Miles would let you leave because he was kind and because there was a fundamental need to right the wrongs of his past, whatever they were.

The lobby comes into full view. Those large, heavy mahogany doors will save you. A separate room away from Miles, a chance to gather your things— your keys, your clothes, the little money in your possession—maybe on the Nevada side. Then you can finally leave.

As you push open the doors, a melancholic heaviness settles in your chest. A realization of what would come afterwards enters you as you remember your troubles. An uncertain future. Shortage of money, no connections, nowhere to go.

Juke box off, TV off, no people, no noise. A stillness in the air, you journey to the cabinet behind the desk.

Your hands are clammy; you don't know why. It's a struggle to open the cabinet of keys.

When you do, it takes a moment to realize what's in front of you, or rather what isn't in front of you. Nothing.

It's completely bare.

Paralyzed, the gears in your mind begin to turn once more.

You blink, and walking backward, you spin. The door. The one behind the desk. You grab and shake it. You slam it with your side. When the sweat starts to pool on your forehead, you leave it be.

Under the desk, you shuffle around, looking for something—OW! You lift your hand up and see a prick on your finger. You shake it. Continuing on, you grab the small plastic case containing the knife, and you unwrap it.

You jam it into the gap between the door and its frame.

When it's done, you head to the closet.

The hallway leading to the closet is dark. It's hard to find the entrance to the closet. Your hand on the wall helps lead you to your destination.

The pounding of your heart grows with each step. You swore you would never return here. But something, let's call it a force from the universe, is compelling you.

The closet door is still ajar; maybe it can't be closed.

Hand hovers over the wood, separating the view from inside. You pushed through with a shaky hand.

A pitch black room. But you can still discern the smell of the stale, earthy mattress Miles slept on.

You lower yourself until your hand lands on the small lamp nestled on the cabinet of towels and cleaning supplies.

When that's done, you turn on the other small lamp next to his mattress. Those two puny lights help you perceive the room.

It's a mess, just like how it was at the beginning. An irrational fear rises— that whatever made Miles break for him to become like this might overtake you, too.

With the tips of your fingers, you cautiously shift the towels and linens around. When it seems like there's nothing around you, use your slipper-covered foot to move his flat, dirty mattress to the side. Nada.

You swipe your foot over the crookedly made desk, careful not to drop anything.

Finally, you cave, dropping to your knees. You move things around, taking in how things were placed so you could move them back to where they were.

You grow more desperate as time ticks by. Frustration builds. Your movements are getting chaotic.

There's so much junk. Letters, handwritten notes, and film canisters, so many canisters—was there a theater somewhere?

You grunt loudly, slamming the canister down. The lid pops open on impact.

Notes fly out, photos scatter. One catches your attention the most. Claire. The last guest you had met in this deserted area.

Her pose is high and rigid. Hair clean and polished, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off her heels, another hand near her cheek, rearranging an earring—soft, diffused lighting. The wallpaper looks familiar.

You remember how she acted when she arrived, always looking around. Could she sense what you did? An inescapable loneliness, but with every action feeling amplified. Was it all contrived?