where anti——septics used to flood the space with intensity, the mold takes over. spoiled and heavy, clinging to the back of one's throat. in immortality, it does not reach him. sometimes he wishes it would. rain steadily seeps into the concrete exterior, creating puddles where the brutalist surface refuses to entirely give way. felix has been offering visits to his old haunt, charity hospital, for years now. it's an easy way to eat. it adds to the mystery of new orleans. hell, it gained him an *uncredited spot as the charity hospital phantom. it doesn't matter what it is or does because the cops won't check it out due to its poor conditions, and new orleans police department especially doesn't care about whatever sorry fucker wants to do drugs in the old hospital. just don't stand outside the gate for too long, and you're good. he lingers on the third floor because sound travels strangely there. footsteps echo wrong, stretch themselves thin, arrive too late or too early. he's found he has a taste for panic. bravado, too. both taste the same in the end. he stands near a blown——out window. one boot braced against the sill, cigarette burning between his fingers. it tastes like nothing. “ you know, ” voice carries just enough to meet her halfway, “ most people don’t come up here unless they’re looking to disappear.”
for @eatsraw. ♡
