Post 24 – Chinese Whispers

Tonight is my last night in the guest house. As homes from home go, this one isn’t that bad. Despite being locked away in a corner of the attic like a dirty family secret, and evidence of murder most horrid, I’m actually growing quite attached to it. My only major grumble with the place is that I have to share a toilet. Not because I’m too much of a snob to inhale the scent of other people’s bodily functions, or that I have to queue for the shower – but simply because if I need a piss during the night, I have to get out of bed, get fully dressed and walk down two flights of stairs, since walking around the public areas naked or even half naked is pretty much frowned upon. Every time I need a piss during the evening the sink in my room looks more appealing – if it wasn’t for the fact that I also use that sink to wash, shave and brush my teeth I would definitely be peeing down the plughole.

I’ve came to a new conclusion about the grizzly murders that I suspect have been carried out around me while I’ve been asleep – the bloodstain in the bathroom definitely points to some heinous crimes being committed by the clearly deranged owner of the guest house, and the little doors in the attic which have been heavily taped shut and furniture pushed up against them is hugely suspicious. Plus she has a little room in the downstairs of the house with a lock and a “Private – Keep Out!” sign on the door. I’ve been curious to find out what’s in there, so I’ve knocked on the door a few times to ask some stupid question I already know the answer to just to get a peep at what’s in there– each time she’s opened the door just a crack and just stuck her head out, and I can see that’s she’s wearing an apron and rubber gloves – standard clothing for disembowelling – and she always seems really anxious to get rid of me, to the point of almost closing the door in my face, which makes me wonder what she’s getting up to behind that big heavy door.

After having eaten at the nearby Chinese take-away, I can safely say that the meat in my chow-mein DEFINITELY wasn’t chicken. I’m sure that I chowed down on a hot, spicy portion of guest-house dweller. There’s no way she can be making enough money to survive on the low prices she charges for her rooms – she’s got to subsidise her income somehow – by slicing and dicing her paying customers, selling the meat to the Chinese take-away, and hiding the skin, bones and their personal possessions behind the little doors in my bedroom.

And I deduced all of this from just one bloodstain. I should be a detective.

Song currently stuck in my head – “Be My Baby” by Vanessa Paradis.
dissolvoray@hotmail.co.uk