The Blackening of Danna

SERENA STEELE MONROE

 

One woman’s journey into the BNWO

The BLACKENING of DANNA

 

© Copyright 2025 by Serena Steele Monroe

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This tale is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, real events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

 

The Blackening of Danna

 

Hotel hallways smell the same, no matter the city. Chlorine, vacuumed carpet, leftover bacon from continental breakfast. The light flickers above our door as Robert fumbles with the keycard, nearly dropping it twice. So set in his ways, Robert fell silent after the parking lot argument about where to grab lunch. With each failed swipe, his mouth tightens.

 

“Let me try,” I say, voice already soothing, the peacemaker on autopilot. The card works for me. We step into the room, instantly hit by recycled air and a blast of faux vanilla. Two queen beds, one sad floral painting, and the TV tuned to silent news.

 

Stumbling twice as he moves through the room, Robert dumps his bags by the dresser. As if the drive aged him five years, he exhales, heavy. Having the effect of rounding his whole body, his shoulders slope inward.

 

The excitement I’d faked for this trip drains out fast. A getaway I never wanted is being ruined by Robert’s pathetic, pedantic, and banal attitude about a quick meal. The laziness infesting him is one of the more disappointing aspects of his personality.

 

“Do you want the window side?” I ask, tossing my backpack onto the farthest bed. Staring at his phone, he shrugs and sits at the edge. I watch him thumb through notifications, eyes glued to nothing.

 

My stomach rumbles.

 

Three hours in the car, no snacks, and the granola bar in my purse didn’t register as food to me. I flop onto my bed, pull my phone out, and wait for him to break the silence.

 

“I’m wiped,” Robert mutters, not looking up. He rubs his jaw, already red from his habit of picking at stubble when stressed.

 

“We could walk around a bit? Or check out the pool?” I say more of two statements than questions.

 

“Maybe after I nap. It’s been a week, you know?” He stretches his arms over his head, and the T-shirt lifts, exposing an inch of pale, soft belly. Familiar, a little bit pudgy, and disappointment sets in. I look away before he notices me staring.

 

Yes, it’s plain as anything, he’ll sleep away most of the time. And on this trip, I’m not fighting with him to do things.

 

After a few moments, I click the TV off and on again to have background noise. Some game show. Loud canned laughter. With his shoes still on, arms splayed like he’s shot, Robert flops back on the bed as if lying on his deathbed.

 

Rolling my eyes, I’ve had it with him.

 

“You can sleep later. We’re only here two nights.”

 

“Yeah, but tonight I’m not much fun. Give me, oh, say half an hour.” He smiles, sheepishly, eyes already closing.

 

Then my pulse speeds up, not from disappointment but from the low, persistent hum that always takes over when Robert’s checked out. Not for the first time, my mind flips to the million things I’d rather do than watch him nap. Restless, my fingers drum the bedspread.

 

Within three minutes, he’s snoring. Counting the specks on the popcorn texture, I stare at the ceiling. Seven, fourteen, twenty-three. When I reach fifty, I get up, walk to the mirror, and adjust my ponytail. My roots are showing. I fluff it anyway. I stare at my reflection and wonder if I always look this needy, this unmoored.

 

I open the mini-fridge. Three cans of generic cola, a single airplane bottle of vodka, and two wrapped cups. Checking the coffee maker, I sigh at the three decaf packets, drop onto the desk chair, and spin in it once. The city outside our window is all glass and light reflecting, nothing worth seeing from this floor.

 

It dawns on me, I’m hungry. Truth is, I could order something. But I don’t want to eat alone while my boyfriend drools on a polyester pillow. Spying the plastic wear, I pick up the knife and run my finger across the serrated edge.

 

It’d work on butter, but not his neck.

 

Bursting into laughter, I observe that it doesn’t disturb his slumber. There is boredom building. It’s one of those tiresome starts to an uneventful weekend. The kind of bland that straightens my blonde curls, makes my nerves jump, and brain fry with anger. On nights like this, we end up in fights.

 

But perhaps, this night anything can happen.

 

For a moment, I consider waking him. Somehow, the thought seems cruel, not to him, to me. Instead, I lace my shoes, yank a sweatshirt over my t-shirt, and grab the keycard. I scribble “downstairs—the bar” on a hotel notepad and leave it next to his cellphone.

 

That way, should he wake, he’ll know where I am. And I understand, he won’t care, but he’ll know. Long ago, when we were shiny and new toys to each other, he’d’ve caried plenty.

 

The hallway is colder than our room. Shivering, I walk fast and take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. With each step, my sneakers squeak. Second floor down: the stench of weed.

 

Third floor: a kid crying behind a door, laughter from somewhere else.

 

Lobby: nothing but a bored clerk and a tall man reading the paper in a club chair. Moving on, I pass the bar, which is mercifully dim and close to empty. I slip onto a high stool at the far end, order a glass of wine, red, whatever’s house.

 

The bartender pours a heavy glass. Thumbing my phone, I nurse it, pretend I’m waiting for someone. Really, I’m taking in the room, the low hum of conversations, the way the bartender’s arms flex when he shakes a cocktail, the wedding ring on his finger, the crooked smile when he serves a regular.

 

The room is sprinkled with hookers and traveling businessmen. Some hook up and leave. Others wait for the next mark to enter the room.

 

After this, I let my eyes drift to the TV above the bar. Baseball, muted, the score in the corner. But I don’t care about sports, I feign interest in something, anything, to rest my eyes on. Scrolling through Twitter, Instagram, nothing new. I drink faster than I mean to.

 

My second glass arrives without me asking. The bartender winks, says, “On the house. You look like you need it.”

 

Swirling the wine, I want to say something snarky, but I smile and let the quiet soak in. Soonish, my head buzzes a little, the tightness in my chest loosening.

 

Halfway through my third glass, I realize I haven’t thought about Robert in over twenty minutes. My body feels lighter, my limbs relaxed. I lean back, look around, and catch my own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes look brighter.

 

The wine hits me all at once. My thoughts slow, warmth spreads through my belly, and for the first time all day, I don’t want to scream or run. I want to sit here, invisible, and drink until I forget why I’m here.

 

Tipping the bartender with the last of my cash, I finish the glass and stand up. Swaying a little. Now, I’m not drunk, but I’m definitely not sober. To clear my head, I take a slow lap around the lobby, head back toward the room. Moving with a purpose I don’t comprehend.

 

The elevator ride is silent, except for the ping at every floor. As I float between dings, I stare at the numbers, trying to remember if I left the light on in the bathroom. If he’s still sleeping, I don’t want to wake Robert.

 

Fucking truth is, I don’t want to wake Robert, period.

 

The hallway stretches ahead, each door identical. I almost walk past ours, stop, and check the number twice. I slide the keycard, hear the lock click, and push inside.

 

Curled on his side, phone now pressed against his cheek, Robert’s still out. With a slack mouth, he’s drooling on the pillowcase. Glancing between the second pillow and him, I stand over Robby for a second, not sure what I want to feel. Affection? Annoyance? Pity? The only thing I think is I’m tired of him.

 

That other pillow is inviting; it beckons me to pick it up and press it over his face. The joke builds, but I’d never hurt him, not physically at least. When does enough actually become enough?