The Flaming Basement

In Which an Observer wanders into a flame-lit room

IN THE BASEMENT OF A BURNING EMPIRE

I OPEN A DOOR ON THE LOWEST FLOOR AND OBSERVE THE ROOM AS I ENTER.

A large man is sprawled on a chaise longue chair, his bulging fat rolls sweating profusely (likely due to the flames consuming the floor and ceiling). He wipes his brow and reaches for another pastry to cram in his mouth, unceremoniously smashing the flaky crust and swallowing it whole before his tongue has any time to taste it. His face has the sickly pallor reflective of his sickening diet, the outline of his mouth like a stretched-out shirt collar. He is nothing but an animalistic, gaping gullet, a black hole for all things devourable. I am repulsed by him, even at a mere glance, and so I turn my gaze to another figure in the fiery room: a woman, dripping in gold jewelry and diamonds.

Her face is like that of a fox, all angles and hidden cunning. Her ruby lips are pursed curtly, a tenseness gently pinching her visage. The flames that lick the walls are dancing in her eyes, reflecting there alongside a different fire, a kind of ravenous ambition. She has the air of a woman who will never be satisfied, as though God Himself could turn the Earth to gold and gift it to her, and she would go on craving more. She sits at a poker table, counting coins into neat little stacks in front of her, then sweeping them into a little velvet handbag that looks like it weighs a ton. On the other side of the poker table, resting his face on his hands and openly ogling at the woman, sits a muscular man.

The man is breathing shakily, his cheeks rosy with flushed red (from the heat of the room or from passion, I cannot tell). His chest is heaving with desire, his face a perfect picture of lascivious intent. The woman does not so much as glance his way, and yet his entire body is nearly vibrating at nothing more than the sensation of sharing the same table. She stands up to go, glides past him on stiletto heels, and something within the man breaks. He takes her by the waist and smashes his face against her lips, a ruined copy of a kiss. She lets out a breathy gasp, her velvet coin purse falls to the floor as his arms wrap around her back, hands roaming... It seems like an intimate moment. In an effort to be discreet, I turn to face the latter half of the room.

The scene is peculiar: Three people engage in lively discourse of some heated topic, increasing in volume and emotion by the second. A small grey girl lays passed out on the floor by their feet. She seems unstirred by the growing din above her, nor the snapping crackle of the charring floorboards. Soft snores fluttering the hair draping over her face. A book lay open a few feet away, cast aside as though whoever reading it had been too absentminded to finish the chapter. The girl sighs dreamily and rolls over, giving me full view of her face. Her eyes droop downwards at the edges, her cheeks are sagging and her skin is deathly pale. It is almost as if her body has given up on any sense of vitality or vigor. The position in which she lays gave an impression of apathy and carelessness, of absolute sluggishness and disregard. I am sure that a pack of demons could ravage the room and she could sleep on, ignoring them.

Speaking of ignorance, it is getting harder to ignore the lively debate happening above the lazing girl. I study each character carefully, quietly observing their arguments. Furthest to the left is a man with boastful puff to his chest and a gladiola tucked into his lapel. He is trying to say something in response to another of the party, but he keeps getting distracted by his own reflection in a nearby mirror (he repositions his hair as a gust of hot wind displaces it). Someone has said something he doesn't like, and he draws himself up to his fullest height in a gesture of hubris. He juts out his chin and pokes the person in the chest with a finger as he begins declaring his opinions loudly to the room. His tone is a grand and booming, his thoughts expressed with such unwavering confidence as though his were the only righteous opinion to have.

The person he poked is a man with hair like copper. His face is an almost purple amalgamation of features contorted by rage, a vein throbbing grotesquely on his neck and another on his temple. He is positively frothing at the mouth now, bellowing insults inches away from the other man's face. The other member of the argument (the third, farthest to the right), is disengaging as she has been distracted by the enthusiastic display of affections behind me.

The woman watches on with a squint, peering at the coins on the floor, the dripping diamonds and the passionate exchange between lovers (if we can call them that). Her lip curls in disgust, though she does not look away. Her face looks absolutely sick with bitterness and covetous yearning, her countenance taking on a pale green color. I expect her to pick up the coins she so clearly wants, to engage the lover or to steal the jewelry, but she does not. The woman simply gazes on, standing in her self made pool of resentful emotions.

The fire is running its tongues up my calves and biting at my heels. I gaze around the room once more. The bulbous man has vomited on himself and the floor, his overconsumption overcoming him. The jewel-encrusted woman is wearing significantly less now (as is her libidinous partner), curves glistening in sweat instead of diamonds. Growling, the carrot haired man steps over the sleeping girl and storms away, leaving only the seething green woman and her arrogant companion to each other's unpleasant company.

I EXIT THROUGH THE DOOR FROM WHICH I ENTERED, AS FLAMES ENGULF THE ROOM BEHIND ME.