Hundred and Eighty-Four

Prologue

Grime consuming the cavity of the urban sprawl, smeared dilapidation smoothers the walls of the establishments contained within. The streets outside didn't fare much better, suffocated by the musty fog that only hid the decadence eroding its' failing facade. The place seemingly no more than a standard apartment complex within the greater metropolis, it was easily eclipsed by the equally foul degradation that was situated around it.

Constructions manufactured from red brick masonry and cold, gray cement stole away what little was left of the warmth that nature formerly brought to these miscreants. All but six stories, the fire escape staircase has since been chipping and screaming—rusted and sharp—longer than any of the lifespans of the memories within its' revolving guests. Trash seeped, in and out, through the confines of the complex's edges as foot traffic came to and fro— akin to those lost within. Surrounded by scum and debauchery amongst the complex's rundown flesh, the bones and organs writhed from beyond the drenched front doors.

Muddy tears stream down the interior's walls as even the fresh graffiti appeared as nothing more than snubbed cries for help. The residents were submerged within the depths of repugnance before one's very eyes, if their souls weren't vacant already.

Grease and yellow remnants melded in with the trash, of which was plastering the wreckage that littered the ground of the apartment complex. Almost populated as much by its' wretches, the vermin similarly added to the filth in the ways of volatile scents and leftovers of a desperate meal.

Chirping from within the walls scarcely cease, roaches infested beyond the point of containment— even for the best of exterminators. So thick the layer of infestations were, the murky brown hallway walls hardly moved until one was close enough to taste the crunchy wings. Carpets torn piece by piece, indentions where there was cemented floor, and endless holes when it wasn't as solidified decorated the populated denizens.

The deeper one goes into the immoral isolation, the less one could see of its' depravity— nor one would want to see. Passing by of those lost to time on the initial floors where just those still fortune enough to turn back— or, at least, those of whom are yet to go too far.

The upper floors were those that were lost to themselves, twitching and cradling our lonesome for what we had foregone. Fortunate enough to be somewhat shrouded in darkness during nightfall, there was only the blaring lights of building sirens flashing amongst the nightmare-etched hallways to wake us from our other light. Home to only very few of this condemned hotel's guests, our burned minds—burned memories, burned lives, fried emotions—were locked behind rudimentary barricades from those of the lower levels— not like it fazed our nonexistent senses. It's no surprised that the elevators went out first— not like that stopped the upper level folks taking a dive headfirst down those shafts. Luckily or not, the ground floor fellas seemed to rid the bodies quickly— or that I was just too lost myself during those times.

Yellow mucus glossing the walls and dismay lacerates the furniture from untold rooms. The smell of the decomposing feces masks the rot that remains, sad I cannot feel the ecstasy frozen on their faces anymore. The terrifying, flashing alarms highlight the naked, ravaged rampaging of the sixth floor's guests. Flesh and appendages paint the curdling shrieks that gnaw at the hotel's bones and fly down its' metallic esophagus to our cold freedom. Twitching and writhing against the hotel's yellow bones, I am lost until my next candle light. We the veins that no longer aid the confines of our lover's organs, I regret everything but I fear to die.