Illness of Ease

Hotel Management scammed an angel, so angels killed the customers .pdf

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Illness of Ease

I am an autistic Cherokee woman with two babies: my daughter, Pearly, who is 10 months old, and my son, Angel, who is 3 weeks old. My 21-year-old African-American husband, Tyrone, is at home, and my parents are accompanying me on this vacation. If you're wondering how an autistic woman can raise two babies, remember that I am high-functioning.

My name is Jewelry. I am 21. My family brought me to the “Ease Illness Hotel.” You might be curious about the “Ease Illness Hotel.” The “Ease Illness Hotel” is a haven for those with physical or mental illnesses, designed as a peaceful retreat. It was founded as an alternative to mercy killings, offering relief to individuals with conditions like Down syndrome and autism, as well as chronic or critical illnesses.

Yes, there's a hospital on site. I adore this place; it's vibrant! Here, families or individuals can create their own joyful experiences, making the atmosphere either calm or dynamic. My children couldn't join me because the idea was to give me a break, so they stayed with my maternal grandparents, Sharon & Ben. My Cherokee mother, Donna, and father, George, are here with me.

This place is beneficial but quite pricey. I didn't remember it being so expensive. The website had different pricing, but perhaps it's due to our specific needs. The food is exceptional. On one end of the plate, there's an assortment of my favorites, including vegetables, fruits, candies, and chocolates. On the other end, chocolates with hard exteriors encase soft vanilla centers. Deciding which to eat first was a delightful challenge.

I intended to pump breast milk but then remembered my children weren't with me. After capping the bottle, I considered my mother's words, “Throw away the breast milk, like, just throw it away,” but decided against it, choosing to store it in the fridge for later. There wasn't much, anyway. I told my mother “You know, I'm not going to. I'm going to put it in the fridge and save it for when I get back to my kids.”

Discovering more space at the bottom of the fridge, with two separate freezers, I thought, “Why don't I just put my breast milk down here? It'll keep the breast milk much fresher.” The lower freezers seemed ideal for preserving its freshness.

Surrounded by candy in the fridge, I returned to my tray. Despite a wide variety of appealing foods, I found myself constantly drawn to skinny gummy worms from another tray, separate from the one that had chocolate-coated saucers with creamy, soft vanilla interiors – delightful shapes and textures.

Faced with two trays of tempting food, I ate from the one with separated square sections. Unable to choose just one, I planned, “You know what? I'll take the other one tomorrow.” I ate the ones with the saucers and saved the other tray for tomorrow, then went ahead with storing my breast milk at the very bottom of the freezer where I saw ice. There were other formula bottles in the freezer. I had brought about three of them, forgetting that I wasn't bringing my children.

We were celebrating at the hotel, and my parents had set this up because they wanted to make me feel better. They knew I had autism, OCD, and mild schizophrenia and wanted to ease any pain or suffering. However, I didn't feel like I was in pain or suffering; I felt like I was living a normal, casual everyday life where things were fairly easy for me.

My OCD was mild, my autism was on the healthier end of the spectrum, and my schizophrenia wasn't that bad, though I couldn't always tell reality from fiction. I wasn't dangerous, either.

My 67-year-old African-American aunt, Bethel, and her 12 friends, one of whom was a black-haired man named Jim, had two babies. One was a fetus in a state-of-the-art fetus-carrying machine—an artificial womb—and the other, fully developed and 4 months old, was a cute boy named after him, Jim Jr. The fetus, named Bobby, was a girl; we could see her developing female parts since the lid of the device was made of transparent plastic.

The gestational age of the child, Bobby, was about 8 months. She was in here because her mother, Maya, who was at home at the time, was getting cancer treatment. Not wanting to have an abortion, she chose to have her child moved to one of these artificial wombs. The mother believed this would be a better idea anyway because if she had died while having cancer, the child could survive.

My Aunt, Bethel, and her little sister, Anna, were born to two black parents, but when their parents died, Bethel & Anna were adopted by the family of my Cherokee father, George.

Jim has Asperger's, so my aunts, Bethel and 56-year-old Anna would help with his babies. There was also Elizabeth, a 60-year-old white woman with short brown hair, prescription glasses, and clothes that made her look like the pinnacle old woman with a pretty hat; It was a pink little hat with flower designs on it.

There was a good woman who was about 40, and her name was Sara Lee. Sara is such a nice woman. There were two children of Sara Lee, and their names were May and Cara. May is 7, and Cara is six.

There was a little boy who was Elizabeth's son, and he was 9 years old. His name was John. Jim was 25, and his twin brother, Sickle, was the same age.

They were talking and making my day fun. The five employees, including the chef who told me about the dishes and explained what they were—their hard outer shell and the inner vanilla filling with the visual consistency of milk—were amazing. They even served it to my room! Amazing!

Then, suddenly, when we went to sleep, I woke up to the guy managing my Aunt Bethel and Auntie Anna, texting me. His name was Carl, and Carl was not a good person; he was a gangster and didn't know how to handle it when people slighted him.

Carl was paying for most of the trip because my parents told him they wanted to make it much easier for me. He admired this hospital for helping struggling people, so he invested $2,000. The total cost we were told we had to pay was $12,000, so this is why our 12 friends, including myself, all came together to split the cost. Carl texted me “We got scammed.”

Carl texted me this:

Bethel and Anna came to my office. Of the $12,000 that we had spent, Bethel gave $3,000, and Anna gave $4,000. You had given $100 because you are on social security and did not have a lot of money in your bank, especially since you were spending all your time buying those subscriptions and video games!

Plus, you also spent your social security on groceries, baby supplies, self-support, and paying your mother's bills after her COVID-19 treatment at Starla Emmanuel's clinic, which cleaned out both her COVID-19 and her bank account.

Turns out, the venue was only supposed to cost—GET THIS—$2,000 with insurance. The baseline cost was $200, but because of everything we asked for to make your day better, which wasn't even that much, just some food, some carnival rides, and maybe a couple more venues… Well, I guess it was that much, to be honest, but still, it shouldn't be so expensive; But I guess insurance would cover it, but no, they had us pay out of pocket. The management is sheisty.

I think the rest of the $2,000 was basically to pay for the entertainment that the rest of our guests would be getting. Nonetheless, they didn't have to pay $12,000 because everything was already arranged.

I'm so angry right now. I want to kill everyone. I want to kill baby Jim Jr., Elizabeth, Sara Lee, Jim, and Sickle.

You know what? I will. I'm going outside to plan everything I have set up. I got all the photos of the 12 friends. Bethel helped me. Bethel told me "Carl, thank you..." For letting them live. You get to live; Anna and Bethel, get to live—no one else, except your parents.

Back to My (Jewelry’s) Point of View:

I was scared and immediately looked out the window. I saw Elizabeth running away from Carl, and he cornered her by the wooden fence. She accidentally broke the rotten and loose fence trying to get away from him. Then, she found this giant shotgun behind the fence, picked it up & pulled it out, and pointed it at him, but she wouldn't shoot for a straight 12 seconds as she walked around with it in her arms, it was almost as long as her entire body! When she did shoot, it's like the bullet went right through him and left no mark whatsoever, so I thought it was just schizophrenia!

Elizabeth was shouting, "Carl, why is a young'un like you killing me?! I'm one of the victims who had to pay $12,000, or at least a piece of the $12,000! I paid $800! I paved the way for everyone else to pay smaller amounts because of my $800 contribution! All that was left to pay was $2,100!”

Elizabeth tried to shoot him again but it didn't work! Suddenly, two angels showed up and one had a big sword. We call him The Plunderer because The Plunderer cut Elizabeth right down the middle in front of my eyes!

I had an autistic meltdown; This resulted from the sheer stress of THAT. I saw Carl chase Sara Lee and the second Angel whom we call The Murderer tried to stab her while The Plunderer cut her arm off, I saw blood just spring everywhere from the murders! I was very scared for the residents of the hotel 'cause I thought he was going to kill everyone at the hotel!

God saved Sara Lee by telling them to “STOP!!!” But another demon we called “The Masquerade,” pretending to be God, told them “Hey, guys, Just don't get my boy's guts and brains on the ground,” and this saved her life as well. I hid for 1 hour…

An hour later, I heard the cries of my BFF, Jim! I was too afraid to look and see them kill my best friend forever, but I could hear that he was dead! When I peeked out the window, he had been stabbed! I knew that I would have to take care of Jim's children, so I picked up the phone and called his wife, Maya, and told her what was happening and told her to send the police.

All I heard was “Jim?! No! I have cancer! Who's gonna raise my babies? My fetus! She's a Fetus! Bobby is just a fetus! She'll never remember him! Newborns have a memory span of 24 hours! And before the age of one, it doesn't get much longer! She'll never remember daddy, oh my Gosh! How do I keep him alive in her memory? I'm calling the police on those monsters! Are you okay!?” I just told her “I was having a meltdown! WE ARE NOT FINE, WE ARE NOT FINE!”

May and Cara had already taken Sara Lee to my room to tend to her by this time, so Cara shouted “WE ARE NOT FINE!!!” And began to sob like a child would! The children were trying to use duct tape to keep their mother’s wound from bleeding out, and it was irritating their mother's wound because their mother kept saying that the duct tape was hurting and irritating!

May shouted, “I don't know what to do!” While crying like a little child! When they killed Jim, they just stabbed Jim and took Sickle.

Sickle was my best friend and he was also married to Sara Lee. “The Murderer” held him back and forced him to watch as “The Plunderer” desecrated Jim’s body. When Sickle saw his brother, Jim, lying on the ground, Jim’s head being slowly sawed off by “The Plunderer” in front of him after Jim's death, Sickle was quite clearly livid. I saw them slowly saw off Jim’s head, Jim wouldn’t move but it looked like his eyes were open with his face in a neutral expression as if no one was there and there was no emotion in there. It was more unsettling to me than if he looked horrified – it was a surefire sign that he was dead.

Sickle's eyes glow, his hands become a shimmering gold as they begin to use voodoo to hurt his nephew, and they have a baby monitor to hear the baby crying. It was Jim Jr. The Plunderer squeezed the baby doll—which was a voodoo doll but looked like a regular baby doll, with black shadows around the doll's eyes and no eyeballs—but had black hair like Jim Jr., and much deathly paler skin than him; this baby doll was meant to look dead. When they squeezed it, I heard baby Jim Jr. cry. They squeezed the heart to the point that the doll's heart popped, with red liquid coming out, and Jim Jr. was crying because of it, even though he wasn’t with them.

Jim Jr. was in a hotel room. It was Jim’s hotel room, meanwhile, the demons, Jim’s dead body, Sickle, and the other dead bodies were outside. The doll’s red liquid splattered, and I ran to check on Jim Jr. and started praying for him to be alive, healed, and if he was dead, resurrected.

I found the baby, Jim Jr. crying while his little fists were closed trying to grab his little chest. I checked on Bobby in the artificial womb and tended to Jim Jr. May ran into Jim’s hotel room, got Bobby, and rolled her out of the hotel room as I tried to bring Jim Jr. to the hospital area of the building.

I was horrified because I suddenly could no longer speak. Some people with autism may temporarily lose the ability to speak when placed in high-stress situations or when overstimulated. This occurs because the heightened stress or stimulation interferes with brain processing, causing a temporary halt in the ability to speak. This phenomenon differs from being nonverbal as an autistic individual, which denotes a permanent inability to speak. The temporary loss of speech occurs in verbally autistic individuals and is a situation where individuals can "lose speech." While some people refer to this as going nonverbal, it's not an accepted term. Nonverbal individuals usually cannot speak, whereas "going nonverbal" implies a verbal autistic person becoming so overstimulated or stressed that they temporarily lose the ability to speak. However, this does not mean they become permanently nonverbal; the loss of speech is usually temporary.

In a moment of desperate hope, I closed my eyes and offered a silent prayer for the baby. With a deep breath, I mustered all the faith I had and tensed my chest muscles, almost as if willing my belief to manifest physically. Miraculously, it worked; But the effort was not without pain, a sharp, piercing sensation that coursed through me as I held on to my belief.

I went outside to transport Jim Jr. to the hospital while May was taking a route there that was inside the hospital. We were panicking and running in circles to get to the hospital! On my way, I saw Sickle, a man of power, battling them. Sickle had a scythe and used it to fight them. We all knew Sickle was a savior, a true hero among men. It seemed like Sickle broke free of the demons.

I was so scared that this was a hallucination, but also more scared that it was real! On one hand, I'm running off with a baby while having a hallucination and panic attack in the hospital! On the other hand, if it's real, my friends are dead and children are losing parents while the baby and I are in danger!

Sickle turned to me and conjured a golden force shield that enveloped me completely, with small air holes near the bottom for breathing. As I moved, he simultaneously used his powers to manipulate his force shields, transforming a force shield into a sword in his left hand to combat the demons. Initially, he wielded his scythe in his right hand without any protection, but soon realized it was ineffective against the demons in its unshielded state. Adapting quickly, he wrapped another force shield around the scythe, enhancing its sharpness. This new shielded scythe proved to be much more effective, slicing through the demons with ease.

I ran into the hospital with baby Jim Jr. I pressed Jim Jr’s chest up against my heart and heard he was still alive then I took him to the receptionist. I grabbed a magazine and a pen and wrote down that “There was something wrong with the baby's heart,” my face was stunned with stains of tears.

As the receptionist, Ms. Rita, looked at the note I had written, she asked, "What?" I hastily wrote back, "I don't know, something is wrong. Check it and treat it. It may be a heart attack, he's grabbing his little chest because it hurts!" Ms. Rita read my note and noticed his little hands trying to grab his chest. She immediately yelled, "Okay." At that moment, I regained my ability to speak and shouted, "The baby boy is having a heart attack, it's an emergency!" I saw a doctor emerge, and I quickly handed Jim Jr. to him, urgently informing him, "He's having a baby heart attack!”

Dr. Walden addressed me, "Excuse me, ma'am?" Without hesitation, I responded, "He's having a baby heart attack!" Just then, Nurse Jackson, as identified by her name tag, glanced outside and let out a scream. She quickly locked the front door! Without missing a beat, Dr. Walden immediately rushed baby Jim Jr. in for care.

As they handled the babies, I looked out the hospital window to see why the nurse was screaming.

In the midst of chaos, Sickle, with a fierce and determined look in his eyes, engaged in a brutal battle against the menacing demons known as The Plunderer and The Murderer. His movements were swift and precise, a dance of deadly skill. Each swing of his weapon was calculated and ruthless, slicing through the air with a lethal grace.

He confronted The Plunderer first, his blade whistling as it made contact. In a series of swift, fluid motions, he severed the demon's left arm and feet, rendering it powerless. The sight was gruesome, with dark ichor splattering in all directions, painting a dreadful scene.

Turning his attention to The Murderer, Sickle's weapon found its mark again. With a powerful arc, he decapitated the demon, its head tumbling to the ground with a thud. The demon's body stood momentarily, a headless figure, before collapsing in defeat.

The scene was carnage, underscored by the fear and intensity of the battle. The air was filled with the sounds of clashing metal and the groans of the defeated demons, creating a terrifying yet awe-inspiring spectacle. Sickle stood amidst the gore, a warrior undaunted, his resolve unwavering in the face of such horror.

The duality of life is that all I can do is something as simple as sit and wait, I feel like I should be doing more, that you would be doing more, but then I have no idea what I should or can do, so I sit and let the ones who know better handle it all.

Sickle rushed into the room, visibly frantic, and asked me urgently, "Where is Jim Jr.?" Without hesitation, I replied, "With the doctors." At that moment, I clung to my faith, believing that God would intervene. I was aware that whatever harm the demons had inflicted might be spiritual and beyond the scope of medical expertise, which is why I sought both physical and spiritual aid. Some might find it odd that I still took him to a doctor, but I couldn't ignore the possibility of a physical ailment. If his condition was indeed physical, failing to seek medical attention could be disastrous. So, I covered all bases, ensuring Jim Jr. received every possible form of help.

Looking through the window, I saw The Masquerade staring back at me. Fear engulfed me and tears streamed down my face as I pondered a harrowing thought: would I ever see my two babies again? The idea that they wouldn’t remember me after a year haunted me. They would grow up, forgetting who I was, as if I had never been a part of their lives. "I never knew my mother," they would say, not realizing that it wasn't true. They did know me, but all memories of me would be erased from their minds – all because some demon, The Masquerade, took my life when they were just babies.

The Masquerade stared me down and laughed at me saying “You have that angel within him next to you… How an angel possesses a  man is beyond me.” I looked at Sickle, a caucasian male with pale skin and black hair, and saw his eyes turn gold. “Michael?” I asked the Archangel inside of him. Was he really possessed by Michael? Sickle looked at me and asked “Who are you talking to? Me?” Sickle seems to still have his own free will aside from the angel inside of him.

Did God send Michael The Archangel to help me… And Implant him within the Sickle? Who was fighting out there? Michael or his Sickle? Sickle looks around for his nephew seemingly at his own free will. Were both fighting together? Is this where he got the idea to use his shields to cover his weapon? Is that how he learned to use them to make weapons? Is this where his power came from?

Sickle asked Nurse Jackson about him and all she said was “He’s okay, but he’s in the NICU.” I freaked out. “What?” I asked, “Something was actually wrong with Jim Jr.?” I then began telling myself “Nope, this is a hallucination.” I gave in to the idea I was crazy because it was better than reality.

If this is reality, it leads to nowhere good. This is why people often enter into denial during grief: there's no benefit in wishing for such harsh truths to be real. Acknowledging sanity becomes pointless. There's no use in struggling to affirm your own sanity when you've witnessed such tragedies—your friends left parentless, some having died, and I even had to watch one die and then see his body be desecrated. Trying to ascertain your sanity becomes futile when faced with such devastating information as the only certainty.

I chose to believe this was all fake. It's a logical conclusion. I don't care if it is real, I will behave as if it isn't. I will behave as if I'm in a delusion. I don't know what could snap me into accepting reality, though.

I cover my eyes, I can only hear what is going on at this moment. I hear Sickle saying he'll raise Jim Jr., I hear sirens, I hear crying, I shoot my hands from my eyes and look at the door. I was so scared because I thought that it was The Masquerade but I saw the Police instead. I started losing my grip on reality. What if I killed them? That makes no sense, I would have known.

The police spoke to everyone. I informed them that someone had killed my friends. I described their appearances but deliberately omitted any traits that would suggest they were inhuman, knowing the police wouldn't believe such details. I firmly blamed Carl. To the police, I said, "There were four attackers: one with blonde hair and pale skin; another with brown hair, blue eyes, and extremely dark skin; and then there was Carl, a guy with dirty blonde hair, a stubble beard, and mustache. He's white, lean, and an adult in his 30s or 40s with mid-length hair.”

The police went searching and I never saw Carl or The Masquerade nearby, so I cautiously tried to calm down. My mother drove me home with my father in the backseat and me in the “Passenger’s Seat” while the others were delegating custody so the kids didn't end up in foster care.

I had to go to therapy because the stress was causing me to lose my speech. I would have meltdowns, and I didn't know if I could care for my babies anymore. My husband took over the childcare. My husband was in the background holding my newborn son, Angel, while I was in therapy. I held my daughter, Pearly, in my arms during therapy.

In my next therapy appointment, I saw a white man behind me with his child, it looked like he had a cute, plump baby girl. He was quite handsome, but I was married so I avoided him. I held my newborn son, Angel, in my arms.

I looked down at my son, Angel, and realized I was blessed to be alive since I had seen so many of my friends’ kids lose their parents. I told him “I'm just so happy to be able to raise you, my love. You & Pearly are my joys.”

The End.