Hotel Husbands (corpse best friend)
The day we entered into the hotel, I knew it'd be a memory. A night we'd talk about, laugh about. In some far flung future. But right now, stepping into the lobby, it was a sight to behold. A fearsome entrance into a new world.
A chandelier, half lit, hung from a ceiling that barely held onto it. The cries of determination could be read in every crack around the chandeliers anchor. A story which we'd hear plenty more in our nights stay.
The carpet a menagerie of colors, all overlaid with an aging brown. The sepia coloration hung onto most all the room. Spiderwebs of age, a thin veneer you know is there but only really shows itself at certain angles. That is to say nothing of the spiderwebs full of insects, like us.
The voice crackled in from a doorway behind the front desk. Hoarse, drawn out, and lived-in, the voice felt homely and hostile. A physical announcement of form drew itself from the shadow behind the front desk to stare at us now. Ghastly in its mannerism, but perhaps more human than I had expected in appearance. A plain fellow, dressed in a rotting suit, cokebottle glasses, and a sharpness.
"Checking in or picking up?"
I looked to you. Hoping for some sort of answer written on your face. I had become medusa then, cast upon your stoic stare. What had I expected?
With a small breath, the man beckoned us. He walked with a gait, a small step into a bigger step. A steady beat, drummer boy leading us to war. With the marble columns yellowing with age and windows hidden away by white frilled curtains. Confederate flags waved, and guns boomed. Men sat and cried in trenches, biting belts.
"This is the hotel for husbands who forget their wives."
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
2087
kaledo-art
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
