In the past, things were different

social worker
mop
hotel room
beeper
fire alarm

Friday 5 prompt

The mop should have tipped him off. It would have, had he not been throwing back shots in the bar all night; surrounded by people just as miserable and desperate as he. Sitting, leaning rather, in the corner, the strings matted and tangled with a slight sour smell of milk from sitting too long in the sun. Not something you’d expect to find in your hotel room; all withered and forlorn, not unlike his relationship, his former relationship with the ex-social worker. Come to think of it though, the dried up husk of her soul probably resembled the pathetic utility handle in the corner. Thin and useless, that was her all right. Bleary eyes went out of focus and he swayed, tottered to the bed and fell down, his clothes reeking of menthol; smoke from a thousand cigarettes lit in angry defiance of death. The beeper clipped to his belt dug into his folded rolls of fat; fat contained by a belt that wrapped his distant hips in a careless embrace. Struggling to turn, he caught a glimpse, a hint of movement from the corner; the corner where stood the ordinary cleaning device now not so ordinary. Where once was cotton loops down, was now cotton loops up. Now not so bleary, he rolled, more or less gracefully to his unsteady feet, shoulders hunched and arms dangled forwards, head slightly turned in thought, puzzled thought. Hands fumbled in his suit jacket, searching for a light and a hit of nicotine. When the fire alarm went off and the blaze contained to number three-seven-six, all that remained of the occupant and the contents, was a pile of ash and bone with the melted outline of a Zippo and a belt buckle. And a mop, leaning in the corner, cotton loops down, smelling of menthol smoke and sour milk: with a slight taste of fear.