The Blackwault Hotel

Chapter 2 | The Hotel

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵❝【 ୨♜୧ 】❞︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

His senses suddenly gathered into a cohesive scene. Apparatus let the clouds of whatever heaven he lay upon soothe his aching back. He felt like his body was bloated with morphine, all drugged up in a happy little high. He was mummified in a coffin of painkillers. What more could he have wanted? His eyes slowly cracked open, streams of light filtered into them. It wasn't tangible at first, he could not relocate anything but faint colours. Then it synthesised and the outline of shapes- nay, objects appeared! He could perceive what was happening around him, his eyes definitely worked as did some of his other body functions. His lungs still promoted the cycle of oxygen replacement, his heart still continued it's metabolic process as blood hammered through his arteries and veins and his brain still thought a billion different thoughts. But he fell mute, he fell deaf and his nose tingled when he attempted to smell. The matter was that he could still perceive. Perception was only capable by those that were living. Therefore he came to the conclusion that he was still alive, barely. A shred of life still fluttered through him, a string of faith that some part of him still tugged upon. He weaved himself a new life.

So where was he if he wasn't currently in the afterlife? It was clear he wasn't surging through the waves of the Thames that's for sure.

His vision blurred at the edges of his eyes, tapering off into discord, kaleidoscope-esk patterns. He figured he was in a bed, it's comforting presence wasn't mistaken and easily distinguishable. The faint whistle of the storm still howled outside as windows nearby the headrest rattled from the tapping fingers of the sweeping winds. A shiver rippled throughout his body, sending his bones into feverish tango. His eyes stung when he attempted to focus on anything within his nearby residence for too long. It was as if the shards of light pierced his retinas, he could only imagine how bloodshot his eyes must appear. This thought then moulded into another: How dreadful did he actually look? Did he look like a drowned rat who decided that today was the perfect day to ride the sewers like a grimy waterslide? The image that this materialised in his brain caused him to wretch in disgust. He always hated rats, he'd go so far as to say that he despised them and that the world would be better off without them. He couldn't think of a single reason for such a scummy rodent to exist on this planet. In actuality that was a lie, the reason was to terrorise him, he thought bitterly with a brisk snort. Apparatus hated the idea that his appearance reflected that off a fat, grizzled, shaggy-furred creature with overgrown buck teeth that protruded from its upper maw, wiry and twisted whiskers that resembled fraying cords, beady, blood-lusting, red eyes that popped out of its small skull and a hideous, snake-like tail! He shook his head in utter dismay, his nose scrunching up into his face as if he could smell the reek of a den of rats. He bunched up his muscles and bones and with one swift push he'd managed to tangle himself out of the covers of the bed.

In a moment of congratulation his lips curled upwards into a eager grin. He now sat upright in his bed, having a clear picture of the world around him, the space that he existed within. The bed that rocked his body into a sleeping snooze was covered with a single, thin sheet of creamy white, which was covered by a quilt that bundled itself up at the foot. The quilt was odd-looking, a mangle of mushy colours, the most distinct of which was red, all held together by a shiny golden trim. A few patterns made up the quilt, none that Apparatus personally recognised no matter how much he told himself he did. Whatever the patterns were mattered not, as they encapsulated his attention with, similarly to the trim, a blazing gold that twinkled in the gloom of the dim room. He bundled up the thin sheets in his hands, they felt of sheeps wool, freshly trimmed, curled and fluffy. Not to mention effortlessly comfortable! He'd never slept on something so soft before, it is no wonder that he mistook it for a cloud. Perhaps the rich folk of London were beyond better off than Apparatus originally believed, either that or Apparatus lived in absolute poverty back up North. His Northern bedsheets were made of pigeon feathers and straw, he could sometimes feel the tendrils of the wheat tickling his toes in the middle of the night or the spine of the feathers prodding his neck. Truly the most uncomfortable and gruelling experience. The bed he took up was made up of four rich, oak posts that arose from each corner. Blinds of what only appeared to be netting material lined each side, creating a cloak of secrecy, shielding him from the room. The room itself wasn't massive, instead it was quite the opposite, a quaint size- normal for a bedroom. The wall north of the bed was vacant apart from the two, tall, oak doors made up of several planks of timber. A few paces to the left of the door, standing proud against the left wall, was a towering bookshelf. It was so incredibly tall and ridiculously wide that Apparatus knew if it were to topple over it would leave a hole in the floor in it's shape. He couldn't exactly make out what the shelves were stuffed with, at the angle he sat. He didn't feel the need to inspect the shelves in person, too lazy to move from his heavenly dwelling. He could assume most of the shelves were packed tightly with books, as to be expected, it was indeed a bookshelf after all. A few of the books protruded out of the bookshelf unevenly, their spines of leathery greens, reds and browns all seemed just about ready to disintegrate into a pile of dust- they appeared that old and worn. His eyes then traced further along the wall, towards a few strides from his bedside. A fireplace hung dormant. Beyond its ivory lips and inside its gaping jaws sat a black iron casket. A few logs lay flat in a triangular pile while the whimper of a fire still clung on through tongues of yellow, orange and amber. It crackled and hissed as embers danced along the lengths of the wood, smoky smog streamed up the shaft coating the throat of the structure in ashes and soot. It was a surprise to Apparatus that the fire could remain alight against the trickle of water that came plundering down from the chimney high above. On occasion a droplet would collide with the wood only to be swallowed by the mercy of the fire. The remaining static simmer would be the only thing to suggest that the droplet had been there at all. The fireplace was a part of the wall, it had a protruding top shelf where several ordainments were strung along it. One in particular was a glass jar, flipped upside-down on it's cork cap. Encapsulated within the glassy prison was a slightly wilting pink flower, it's bud was snapped shut in a tight squeeze. Apparatus found it odd that the flower seemed to be suspended with not a sign of gravity resisting it's gentle forever float. Although he figured that it must be surrounded by some liquid membrane or tied up with invisible wire. In front of the fire sat two red armchairs chairs, their backs coiled around the arms to privatise whoever occupied them. It was probable that someone could be perched in one and Apparatus would be none the wiser, alas he didn't make an attempt to be heard if there was. Why bother disturbing someone? Aside the fireplace was a silvery metallic vertical rack which Apparatus only assumed was to hold the utensils for the fire. It unnerved him that the utensils were not currently in their proper sheath, furthering his belief that he was not alone in this room. He unglued his eyes from the fireplace, now seeing it's warming amber glow ebb and dapple the rest of the surfaces of the room. Upon the right wall was a massive picture, more specifically a portrait of an elderly looking man. His hair was a thrush white, his forehead covered in little patches and he wore some long, silky black robes with a prideful red tie. His little face was scrunched into a harmonious grin, his golden spectacles hanging barely on his face. The portrait had a rippling, bumpy bronze trim, the exact same bronze which plated the corners of an end table just below the painting. The end table lay empty except for a few books stacked in a neat pile, tied together with a thin piece of red string and a pot of black ink accompanied by a fluffy feathered quill which paraded multiple shades of a noble mocha colour. The pot was being used as a paperweight to hold down a sheet of paper that lightly fluttered with the dwindling wind. What was scribbled upon it? What did the page detail? Apparatus couldn't tell. Another addition to the table was a small, golden-wired birdcage which thankfully didn't seem to have any resident. Apparatus was always slightly fearful of birds, he found their horrid shrills to be a nuisance, waking him up every dawn without fail. It seemed every avian had a specific vendetta against Apparatus, he remembered the time that his Mother had taken him out to feed the ducks.