Another familiar hotel it was.
It had red velvet carpets spread all over its interiors, stretching from corner to corner, even draping from the banisters. In fact, it was quite ambushed in red; only the golden doors of the elevator had the realm of reality, only I knew it was a dream. The building was a paradox. I always couldn't get to the 3rd floor, no matter which route I took.
Someone was calling me from the 4th floor. The elevator only went up to 2. I had to swerve all round the first block of buildings to reach a flight of stairs, then, toppling over some Christmas decorations, I found myself lost in a corridor of fountains. The fountains sprouted water silently, as if something were going to happen.
It reminded me of the lobby--the lobby of The Ministry of Magic of course.
I half expected someone to come tumbling out from the shadows.
* * *
Roaming about the garden(of the hotel) as usual, I looked at my watch and saw it was already ten past four. I had a plane leaving at four thirty; I didn't want to rush, but I had company waiting for me to start leaving. (we were going somewhere in a group of 4 or 5). So I sprinted back to my hotel room, only to find one of them lying quite still on the stony surface of the front lobby. Her reflection on the luminous floor was magical, and the fountains were falling ever so silently.
Suddenly the lights went on. ---Were they off?
She spoke. "We had to leave. We had to leave, but James Crocket forgot his suitcase in Berlin."
"James?" I repeated. "Which....which James?"
"Crooocket." she croaked.
"Oh. Crocket. Right. And.....so....."
"But we are leaving, you know. We are." she pressed. "But I just seem to like it here, stuck on the floor."
I shrugged. "I know. It makes you feel like you're lingering on the edge."
"I missed the edge..." she batted her eyes furiously. "Oh, wait, I know. I know, I know. I know."
"Yes?"
"You're the edge." she said.
Wednesday
In the dead of the night, someone was packing their suitcase in a frenzic rush.
Tattered socks of every colour were sprawled all over the bed sheets, along with bits of old newspapers and other kinds of everyday rubbish.
He stopped. Someone was coming in. He rushed into the bathroom, closed the door and waited.
He had a crimson ticket in his hand, which he now stared with feverish excitement (hadn't he noticed it before?). Someone called his name through the door and sighed. A great thump, followed by a skiiiiid suggested someone sitting by the foot of the door, waiting for him to come out. Or answer.
Our protagonist went over to the sink, slowly started to tear the ticket into eighths; then, out of the blue, started shredding them like mad. As if someone had clicked a certain switch in his body.
Then dawn fell. Everything was still, only the sound of the running fridge humming in the dim room.
Nobody came in; nobody came out.
Tattered socks of every colour were sprawled all over the bed sheets, along with bits of old newspapers and other kinds of everyday rubbish.
He stopped. Someone was coming in. He rushed into the bathroom, closed the door and waited.
He had a crimson ticket in his hand, which he now stared with feverish excitement (hadn't he noticed it before?). Someone called his name through the door and sighed. A great thump, followed by a skiiiiid suggested someone sitting by the foot of the door, waiting for him to come out. Or answer.
Our protagonist went over to the sink, slowly started to tear the ticket into eighths; then, out of the blue, started shredding them like mad. As if someone had clicked a certain switch in his body.
Then dawn fell. Everything was still, only the sound of the running fridge humming in the dim room.
Nobody came in; nobody came out.
Tuesday
That familiar hotel with a pungent air of tainted leather.
My bed was atop a loft (a falling-apart gallery that is, the type of gallery where it'd be jammed with people overlooking the stage as in Les Enfants du Paradis). My bed was going to collapse any minute now. It's got bed bugs all over; its wooden body is just barely holding itself together. A lumpy, oddly-dusty mattress was hung over it like a corpse, suggesting no sense of comfort.
It is the hotel that reappears in my dreams frequently these days; yet, I didn't notice this until tonight, as I felt a strong sense of recognition being in this scene.
Naturally, this hotel is not populated at all. It is falling apart like a terrible ghost shack,
and I have all my intentions to leave but I simply can not.
The smell is so distinctive, I just can't.
* * *
Facing the busiest, most car-populated street ever, there is a 2 story building with its walls made from glass. Heavy beige curtains made from camel's skin are draped all over, ceasing the killer-sunshine from pouring into the room.
I am in the bed at the corner, my curtains opened just slightly so as I can see the view.
There is no view.
"I'm waiting for my rocket," I say, and someone replies, "But how do you make the rocket?"
The room shakes, racking up the city into shredding bits.
My bed was atop a loft (a falling-apart gallery that is, the type of gallery where it'd be jammed with people overlooking the stage as in Les Enfants du Paradis). My bed was going to collapse any minute now. It's got bed bugs all over; its wooden body is just barely holding itself together. A lumpy, oddly-dusty mattress was hung over it like a corpse, suggesting no sense of comfort.
It is the hotel that reappears in my dreams frequently these days; yet, I didn't notice this until tonight, as I felt a strong sense of recognition being in this scene.
Naturally, this hotel is not populated at all. It is falling apart like a terrible ghost shack,
and I have all my intentions to leave but I simply can not.
The smell is so distinctive, I just can't.
* * *
Facing the busiest, most car-populated street ever, there is a 2 story building with its walls made from glass. Heavy beige curtains made from camel's skin are draped all over, ceasing the killer-sunshine from pouring into the room.
I am in the bed at the corner, my curtains opened just slightly so as I can see the view.
There is no view.
"I'm waiting for my rocket," I say, and someone replies, "But how do you make the rocket?"
The room shakes, racking up the city into shredding bits.
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