She shuffled her feet as she slowly walked down the funny-smelling hallway.
She couldn't help but notice all the little chips in the paint and dents in the wall, and the fraying-at-the-edges carpet.
She straightened the small stack of pictures in her hands and watched her bare feet not sink into the now-hard and once dark green carpet, and took a deep breath.
She passed a door on the left side of the hallway that had several bullet holes through the wood, and many locks on the door.
She passed a doorway on the opposite side a couple feet down, with the curtain covering it burnt to where it only covered the top half of the doorway, and singed floorboard could be seen under it.
It had boards nailed across the entrance so you couldn't get in.
She passed one door that seemingly had nothing wrong with it, but more locks, and the funny smell that made her throat burn a bit was stronger there.
The last one she passed was nothing but wooden boards covering the entire entrance with old- very old bloodstains on them.
She turned the corner and glanced up at the attic door on the ceiling, where a dusty substance was leaking through the cracks, all down the hallway.
It stunk badly of death, and the dust was so thick she had to bring her sleeve up to her nose and mouth and pull up a hood up over her head to not get any in her system or on her.
At the end of that hallway was one, simple, shiny, well kept, and unlocked door.
Thick, glossed and unmarked maple wood made the door, with a sturdy black iron frame and a black iron door handle was what gave it a very new and strong appearance, though it somehow felt very old, and fragile at the same time.
She lowered her hood and adjusted the pictures once again before turning the handle and opening the door silently.
She closed her eyes as she stepped in, and kept them closed till her back was pressed against the sturdy door, facing the inside of the room.
She slowly opened one eye at a time and took a deep breath, stepping forward again.
The room was a simple, perfect square. The walls were perfectly painted a light coffee color, and there was a window on the left and right wall, completely symmetrical to each other and in new condition.
There were dark brown curtains for each, and both had a silver curtain rod.
Not a single speck of dust or dirt was in the room, not even on the plush, off-white, thick carpet that her feet actually sank into.
There was no furniture in the room, except a single, dark brown, squarish chair in the exact center of the room, facing the wall opposite to the door; a tall, silver lamp directly behind the chair, and a very small side table to the right of the chair made out of the same wood as the door, with only a square cup coaster in the perfect center of the circular surface.
She very slowly walked forward, only looking ahead blankly and not really seeing anything. She was lost in her thoughts as she sat stiffly in the chair, staring vacantly at the wall she was facing.
The curtains were drawn, so no moonlight could get in. The lamp was only shining a soft orange light onto the ceiling that it faced, barely reflecting it to the rest of the room.
The only thing that could be heard, was her soft breathing, the rain gently tapping on the windows and walls, and the even softer chirping cicadas outside.
She closed her eyes tightly again once she drifted back to the present, and stood.
She walked up to the wall she was facing and slowly, reverently, tacked up the three pictures she held in her hands.
They joined the wall covered in pictures like themselves, never to be taken down.
She took a step back and scanned over all the images on her wall, looking over the many, many faces and places and smiled just barely; a twitch on the corner of her mouth really, as tears began rolling down.
She stepped back more to get a better view of all her dead friends and family, a couple lovers and spouses, all that she had once had and lived with and loved and traveled with.
She couldn't help smiling more as she began silently crying, looking at everyone and everything she had lost. It wasn't a happy smile though, as much as she told herself it should be.
These were bitter tears. Tears of regret, sorrow, guilt, and tears of anger.
Her tearful smile turned into a scowl of hatred and she fell back into her chair, looking over the people she had all lost, one way or another.
Most had died, and some had left.
Her brothers, sisters, mother, father, grandmothers and grandfathers, friends, best friends, boyfriends, lovers, husbands, children, grandchildren, and even pets, had all been sent out of her life in one way or another.
And every night, she would come into this room, passing some rooms where some of these people had died, and she would add more pictures.
Some nights she would cry, others she would laugh.
Some nights she would tear them all down in rage, just to put them back up.
Some nights she would pinch her skin till it bled, and some she would drink till she forgot the pictures were in front of her face.
Some nights she would just sit, staring at the pictures in too many emotions to name, swimming in then and not knowing how to even begin to assess them all.
She would spend the night in that room, every night, every day, week, month, year, decade, century, millennium... Every night she would spend the night.
Weather she slept or not, she stayed, and in the morning, she would act as if the room didn't exist, and carry on with whatever she did. She didn't even know. She had stopped living, stopped gaining people close to her.
At this point she couldn't tell if she was immortal as she used to believe, or if this was simply eternal punishment, and she had already died.
Either way, it was hell. The only difference between them was that in one scenario she was dead, and the other alive.
But again, she could never tell any more, so she kept her routine.
By day, a silent hermit who drew, ate, and cleaned, and by night a guilty, dead-inside tortured soul.
She did that, day by day, week by week, year by year, decade by decade, century by century, millennium by millennium...
And it never ended.
