Icebox

Chapter 4

Nicotine

Dots. The ceiling above me was covered in dots. A countless army of them--all waiting to greet me when I woke from my nighttime slumber.

Always funny how they’d call such a thing a “popcorn ceiling”. What did they use to describe it? A “form of ceiling texture”? And what good is a texture if you should never be able to touch it?

I stared on at the sky-reaching plaster which now reminded me of microwaveable, pressure-cooked food. My hoof reached out over to the side, but nary was there a mare to hold. Only sheets. Sheets, a mattress cover, and a roughed-up pillow. My hoof reclined.

Could one not consider them stalactites? They very much so behave like them, it seems. That is, apart from the fact that they’re more like brittle nubs than sharp, rock-made spears. What of pimples? Celestia could surely recall how mine would pop out like those above when I was still in school.

And what of her sister?

Perhaps she would compare them to stars. Seems fitting, after all.

My nose wriggled from side to side as it was unexpectedly infested with the foul-smelling stench of some chemical odor--ruining the nostalgia of my post-slumber dreams.

I sat up.

Green.

‘Twas nothing but the damned wall.

I looked to my side and saw the morning light shine through the window, then looked back again and saw Masq sitting on the edge of the rivaling bed. I had somehow missed her in my first graze over the room. She stared on at the wall and held something in her hoof that I could not immediately make out upon first glance.

A cigarette.

“Masq!” She paid me no mind. “What the hell are you doing?! Since when are you a smoker?!!”

Putting the vile roll to her mouth, she sucked in--then--puffed a small cloud of gray smoke right out into the open air--ready for the world to inhale.

I immediately jumped for the comforter and pressed it to my mouth, then reached underneath with a hoof to slip it between--hoping to add in some extra layering.

“Why are you doing that in here?!” I asked with a muffled, muttered, masked voice. “Why didn’t you go outside??!”

Looking off to the side, she let her response limp in. “Didn’t wanna get cold.” She said.

“Didn’t want to get cold?!” I laughed, pressing the blankets harder to my face--as not to risk exposure. “And you would sacrifice the health of those who you care about for a petty shift in temperature?!”

She dabbed the ashes building up on the cigarettes tip to the open carpet--not a care in the world for the stallion who owned it (nor the maid lady who probably cleaned it).

“Bad teeth. The skin of a raisin. Lung cancer. Secondhoof! Do all of these things mean nothing to you? Hmm?!” I asked her, demanding a proper, justifiable response.

Lost in space, she did not care to communicate back. Inhaling once more and exhaling out, her hoof sagged down to the side--the lit, burning end draping over the cotton fabric of the comforter’s lining.

“Masq!” I reached a hoof out, bursting from my makeshift air filter, then very quickly returning to it.

A scant eye glanced in my direction, then the hoof lifted itself back up again. She inhaled again, then puffed out another gray cloud.

“Masquerade, if you’re going to choose to do this, then I’ll kindly ask that you take it outside. While I cannot and will not endorse this sort of behavior, I think it’s only fair that you not make me a victim of your bad habits. Surely you understand, correct?” I had hoped she could make out all of what I just said--what with the blankets.

Looking over to me, she put the thing between her lips a final time, then pulled it back out and let it slide out of her hoof’s grip to the floor--still burning. She got up and walked to the door, snatching a pack and a lighter from the table.

I jumped from my spot in the bed and went for the smoldering remnant immediately--stomping on it with the fury of a bucking bronco--trying to put it out. When done, the floor (and my hoof) was covered in enough black to paint the train from the station back in Ponyville.

“Outside, correct?” she asked me, pulling out a second cigarette and holding it in her mouth. I shook my head and returned to the safety of the blankets--shielding my face and body from the world.

Masq gave the knob a twirl and pulled.

Tug!

It didn’t seem to want to open.

Masq twirled and tugged again. Tug. Tug. Tug. Tug.

Nothing.

I sat up, revealing myself from my cover. “Having some trouble, hmm? Forgetting how to use doors, are we?”

She shrugged, stepping to the side. “It just won’t open.”

“Won’t open? Won’t open. There must be a reason for it.”

“Well,” She put the cigarette down to the side. “I don’t know why.”

It seemed she was content to sitting and staring off into space. I didn’t want to enable her, but the hunger of whatever meal the desk keeper had waiting in the lobby was enough to force me to get my ass up a second time over.

I popped out of the blankets--once again--and walked to the door. I twirled the knob.

Tug!

I didn’t feel like playing a game that had already been played before, so I backed up and began to observe--probing the thing for weaknesses.

I checked out the window to see if anything was blocking the door’s path, then recalled that, from our end, it was a pull--not a push.

“Maybe it froze over.” Masq suggested. I returned to the front of the door again, looking it over from head to hoof.

“Froze over” you say. “Froze over.” I suppose that’s technically possible, but I doubt it’s a reality. The lock’d certainly be suffering from an onslaught of metal-killing cold from the outside, but it’s also being warmed from within. So if that be the case, what’s the stimulus, then?

The screws on the knob lacked indentions for a screwdriver. Just nice, smooth, and chromed over the heads. (Not the most reflective chrome, though).

I went for the phone on the nightstand, almost stepping on the blackness smeared all across the floor, and read off from a small, thick, plastic-coated piece of paper beside. I dialed for the front desk. The red font on the digital clock nearby struck 11:13am.

No answer.

I hung up the phone and looked to the card. Thick plastic. I thought it a worthy sacrifice.

I picked up the card with the desk’s dial number on it and returned to the door. I slipped it into the crack between the slot where the latch hooked on--thinking I might free it loose. I grated the card against it--pushing and sliding and bending it over the top. Then the existence of the deadbolt came to mind.

I went back to the phone--my chewed up, impromptu companion tool in-tow, and dialed for the emergency services.

A tri-tone jingle invaded my eardrums. “We’re sorry,” said the text-to-speech robot voice of a mare. “You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have-”

I hung the phone up. Looking to the card, there read a headline at the top. “This phone can only be used to dial the front desk.”

So it would seem.

A static clicking buzzed into my ears from above.

I looked up and saw the light of the ceiling fan. It flickered. Click! Click click!

Shadow.

The power had gone out. The heater, with a painful choke, cut out with it. I rushed to the window and checked the lights on the street and the lobby outside. None of which were illuminated, but that didn’t offer my mind any respite in the middle of daytime--my options, OUR options, began to wear thin.

I stood before the door and took a step back.

Slam! I charged into it, knocking against it like what I hoped was an angry hoofball player mid-game--sacking a quarterback.

Slam! I charged again--but still to no avail.

Slam! And with the third, the ache of my shoulders--numbed only by my adrenaline--began to get to me. I wanted to sit down, but decided instead to try a fourth time--only to meet the door with a wimpy thud. It seemed that, in this room, it was neither brawn nor brains that would win the day.

“I used to smoke them a lot, you know.” Masq said, sitting in a chair by the door. “Back before I met you.”

I blinked, looking her in the eyes.

“I guess old habits never die, now do they?”