The kitchen was dim and damp. The heat suspended droplets of water in the air just small enough to be unseen. The light fog could be caught in glances on the rotting floral curtain hardly hanging on to the rusty pipes over just as rusty a window. It was propped open allowing even more of the horrid humidity into the dank abode. The wall was made of decaying paper, a canvas of mustard and shrooms. Pictures of a forgotten family hang lifelessly over the dusty table. Three stolls broken in various ways wrapped around the surface. Each perfectly placed in their spots as if the were pretending to be proper among all the abysmal mess.
Creaking across the floorboard came the hostess. An old woman with an even older fire in her eyes. The fire—it was so far from the fire of a hearth that you’d have mistaken it for ice, though a fire it was. A hatred, a passion running through the veins of the woman. It burned through her and corrupted what might have been a mighty soul. Her wisps of graying brown hair curled into a false volume. Her failing skin was colored closer to death than to life. She looked at me, then through me. She turned and left as though I never came at all.