Hotel Virginia

rating: +43+x

GUEST ID: David


Driving.

Roads.

Moonlight.

Dark.

Light.

Headlight.

Swerve.

Crash.

Burn.


CAUSE OF ENTRY: Automobile.

GUEST ID: Norma


Bright.

Bed.

Sterile.

Friends.

Hope.

Sadness.

Noise.

"We love you."

Confusion.

Static.

Buzz.

Quiet.


CAUSE OF ENTRY: Age.

VERDICT(S):

Guest ID "David" - Deny, request transfer.

Guest ID "Norma" - Accept.


It's June. You get a letter from your mother, and another letter from the clinic. You read the letter from your mother first, and avoid opening the second letter until the end of the day. It contains a lot of elaborate terms and phrases, all of which are very long, but to summarize— you don't have many days left. You already knew this.

It's July. Your condition has gotten worse. You tell your doctor the same things every day. They run the same tests, give you the same medicines, but nothing changes. Everything stays. Nobody comes to visit you anymore.

It could be August. You live with your mother now. She still loves you, but every time she looks in your direction, there is heartbreak in her eyes. The letters from the clinic are not as frequent as they used to be. You rarely visit your doctor.

You think it might be April. You live in a white room. You don't know why. Your mother sometimes visits you. There is a bouquet of roses on a desk, and you watch them rot throughout the month. Nobody ever comes to change them.

Warm.

Comfort.

Noise.

Discomfort.

Rushing in.

More noise.

Mother.

Heartbreak.

Loud noise.

Panic.

Silence.


You don't know what month it is now. You have been staying in a large building that people call "The Hotel Virginia". The staff of the hotel tell you that you live here now. They are very friendly— they give you a nice bed and a bouquet of roses that never grow old, that are always watered.

You meet some of the other hotel guests. They don't know how they arrived here either, but they have all decided to stay. The other guests tell you that they don't think about "the past" anymore.

HV-1.jpg

One day, you ask one of the hotel staff if you can visit your mother. They tell you that she "isn't ready yet", and then you start to grow worried. You start to grow scared. The staff tell you that you can leave if you want, but that the other hotels aren't as nice as Hotel Virginia.

You ask them to show you the exit anyways.

They take you to a large elevator, with a small row of buttons to pick from:

THE FUTURE - RETIREMENT HOME FOR THE DERANGED

THE TERROR HOTEL - R&R FOR NOCLIPPED SINNERS

THE GRAVE - LOCAL BACKROOMS CEMETERY

THE HOTEL VIRGINIA - BED AND BREAKFAST FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED

Overwhelmed, you turn away from the elevator, and stare at the hotel employee. They are looking at you with a friendly expression. You think about the bouquet of roses. You ask them if your mother will be here eventually, and they tell you that she will be.

You decide to stay.

HV-2.jpg

GUEST ID: Judith


Warm.

Comfort.

Noise.

Discomfort.

Rushing in.

More noise.

Mother.

Heartbreak.

Loud noise.

Panic.

Silence.


CAUSE OF ENTRY: Alzheimer's.

VERDICT(S):
Guest ID "Judith" - Accept.


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