The Oasis

The Oasis was the only hotel still open.

Marge shoved at its heavy door, competing with the wind. A spiteful puff of snow entered as it finally clicked shut. 

His eyes slowly adjusted from the paper-white snow outside to the warm, brown nature of the hotel.

He dragged his suitcase across the rough floor of the lobby, feeling the cold melt from his bones with every step he took. The hotel had exceptional heating, and he was glad of it. But the cold was nothing compared to what he was hiding from. 

He took off his beanie and scarf, shaking the snow from them. 

A ginger-haired receptionist looked at him over her wire-rimmed glasses, eyebrows raised in shock, her mouth slightly ajar—perhaps not wanting or expecting to serve a customer during the blizzard. She shut the newspaper in her hand, placing it on top of a pile. 

He smiled politely, deciding to ignore her shock and approached the desk, reading her name card. Sasha - Here to help! 

“Good afternoon, Sasha.” 

Marge noticed that her desktop was closed, and beside the pile of newspapers was a collection of half-open makeup products.

She blinked and shook away her expression, rebooting the PC. “Welcome to The Oasis. How may I help you?”

“You’re not gonna ask if I had a reservation?” It was an important piece of information. No reservations meant no foreseeable customers.

Sasha gave him a bewildered look. “It’s off-season, of course not. Why are you here? I mean, if it were just snowing a little—sure. But there’s a full-on blizzard out there!”

Marge shrugged. “Could I get a one-bedroom?”

She schooled her expression, unlocked the desktop, and began typing away at it, the sound barely audible over the screech of wind outside, so strong it felt as if the hotel was one blow away from flying away. 

“Name for the reservation?”

“Marge.”

She began typing, then paused. “Marge?”

“Yes.” He picked at his nails. 

She nodded, standing in a waft of rose perfume. “I’ll be half an hour. Our housekeepers all called off today.” 

So Sasha would be the only worker entering his room; that was good.

He dragged his suitcase to the waiting area, sitting on a navy plush sofa and counting down the minutes. The hotel groaned, like the wind was a monster shoving against it. Snow covered the windows in a white embrace, and from where Marge had entered there was a concentrated pile of snow and footsteps that grew weaker as they reached the receptionist desk, melting and soaking the floor. 

He grabbed a blanket and draped it across his shivering body, thinking of what it took for him to get here. Of what happened before. 

At the thought, intense overwhelm settled heavily on his chest, and the weight of it was so

painful he feared that it would cave in and destroy him. 

Then he heard Sasha’s heels tramping down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath and shaking off his train of thought, Marge approached the desk once more, smiling at her. 

“Oh my, I really do hate these stairs,” she panted as she lowered herself onto her chair, spinning herself around and opening a drawer to pull out a keyring. “Thanks, Marge. It’ll cost one-sixty per night. Our chef—me, I mean, since he’s off sick—can do breakfast in bed for an extra fifteen, if you’d like.”

No chefs either. Good. “No thanks.”

She exhaled in relief. “Thank goodness. I’m hardly a qualified cook.”

Marge chuckled. “So are you the only one here?”

“Yep.” She handed him the key. “Room 106, level 3. Make yourself at home.”

He grinned, paid and pocketed the keys, exiting the lobby and entering a short hallway containing the staircase, laboriously carrying his suitcase up the three flights.

An entire hotel, all for himself, cut off from communication. No one knew he was here, and no one would think to find him here. 

He smiled at the thought.

***

Marge wanted nothing more than to indulge himself in a warm shower, but when he dug through the bathroom cabinets, he found no towels. 

He went down the stairs, steps soft as he wore only his woollen socks, not bothering with shoes.

When he entered the lobby, he spotted Sasha still at her desk, staring at a newspaper page. Her face was screwed up in an expression Marge couldn’t quite interpret.

“Good evening,” he said, speaking loudly so he could be heard over the blizzard.

Sasha let out a startled squeak, and in one deft motion she shoved the newspaper into the bottom drawer of the desk. “Evening,” she answered, breathlessly.

Marge raised an eyebrow, smiling. “What was that about?” 

Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath before smiling sweetly at him. “Just—Just embarrassing gossip about the hotel. Honestly, I feel a bit scandalised.” She chuckled self-deprecatingly, tucking her hair behind her ears. “What do—How may I help you?”

“I need a clean towel.”

Sasha nodded. There was something about her smile he couldn’t place. “Coming right up!” She disappeared into a door behind the reception desk, coming out with a grin on her face and a pile of white towels in her arms. “Thanks for not ringing me up; I would hate to have to climb up those stairs again. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Have a good night.”

“Thanks.” He took the towels from her arms, nearly dropping one in the process. “Is your shift nearly over?” 

“No, I’ll be here all night.”

Marge’s eyes widened. “Hard-working, aren’t you?”

She tilted her head, eyes glistening as she observed him. “I guess you could say that.”

“I’ll be off then. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

It was an odd response, but Marge made no comment and made his way back to room 106, looking forward to his warm shower.

He didn’t lock the door behind him. There was no use, as he was the hotel’s only customer, and he doubted Sasha would, for whatever reason, face the flights of stairs to come into his room. 

He threw the keys onto the nightstand and entered the bathroom. 

***

Marge had spent an unmeasured amount of time reading, and when he remembered that he still had to brush his teeth, the moon was already high in the sky. The blizzard was as strong as ever, the wind like a deafening, high-pitched wail as it collided with the hotel. Room 106’s window was covered in a thick layer of snow. It kept people inside—no one would be coming to a hotel in this weather. The heaters were on full blast, but even so he still felt tense with cold.

He turned off his bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness as he stumbled into the bathroom, fumbling for the light switch and wincing as it burned his retinas. He had put his toiletries bag on the sink, and he reached into it for his toothbrush. 

His eyes were drooping when he heard sharp clicking right outside the room’s door, so close he could hear it over the wind. 

The unmistakable sound of Sasha’s heels. 

She’d complained about the stairs twice today. Yet here she was.

Marge’s head shot up; he spat out his toothpaste, shut off the bathroom light and peeked out of the sliding door, ears perked. 

He squinted, adjusting to the darkness.

The door to his room was wide open, and Sasha stood in the shadow of the doorway, the light of the hallway glowing behind her.

Her expression was set, a furrow between her eyebrows. She blinked rapidly as her eyes roamed the room. 

What was she doing?

He should have locked his door.

Sasha folded her arms, the furrow growing deeper until it was like a chasm in the middle of her forehead. Her lips turned downward, a frown making her whole expression sag.

Finally, she shook her head. Turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Marge stood there, bewildered—his thoughts swirling so loudly they blocked out the aggressive gusts of wind and snow outside.

What just happened?

He walked to his door and locked it.

***

Marge awoke to screaming winds, thundering snow, and a groaning hotel. That night, before he had succumbed to sleep, he had gone through all the possible reasons why Sasha would enter his room, just to stand there with such a pensive expression.

The newspaper.

The one she had so desperately hidden from him, in the bottom drawer of the wooden receptionist desk. 

Marge feared. Oh, how he feared. He had an inkling of an idea. A possibility planted in the back of his mind of what Sasha had seen in the newspaper. And if it was right… 

Then being here at the hotel wouldn’t be the respite he thought it’d be. 

He had to leave. But how would he? The blizzard outside seemed to answer the question; it trapped him inside. He wouldn’t risk another attempt at walking through the aggressive, numbing winds. And he might not be lucky enough to find a place to stay in again.

He changed out of his pyjamas and into his warmest outfit. The heaters were still on full blast, and he was beginning to grow sweaty and sticky under all the layers. But if he had to run, then at least he wouldn’t freeze to death.

He grabbed the keys from the bedside table and let himself out, down the stairs, and back into the lobby.

To his relief, the receptionist desk was empty. He stopped in his tracks, listening carefully for the clip of Sasha’s heels. 

But he heard nothing.

He went behind the desk, which was littered with fashion magazines, cosmetics, and novels, and knelt onto the wooden floor.

Marge wrapped his fingers around the bottom drawer’s handle.

The wood protested as he dragged it open; the newspaper—which was on top of a pile of what seemed to be files—came into view.

A face was staring back at him, printed large.

His own face.

His mugshot.

Beneath the photograph was a headline he’d spent months trying to forget, his real name printed in letters too large. 

Marge’s hands began shaking. Frantically, he snatched the newspaper with every intent to

burn it, but he barely made it a step before he was stopped in his tracks.

Sasha.

She stood right there in front of him, a similar furrow to the one last night between her

brows. Heels exchanged for slippers. Bright orange hair tied into a high ponytail.

Marge’s voice shook. “How do you have this?” The newspaper shook in his hand as he held it up. “What were you going to do with this information?”

“The better question is what you might do to me,” she said. Despite the fear in her eyes, Sasha gave him a sympathetic look. She was hiding an object behind her and was beginning to raise it. “I’m sorry.”

Something came flashing toward him.

He blinked.

And his eyes didn’t open.

Everything was dark.