Post by Dante "Vagabond" Coles on Jul 22, 2007 18:12:04 GMT -5
The ceiling had an interesting paint job. It was all one color, beige, but with multiple tones done in swirling patterns. It was surprising to find something like this in a hotel, especially one like the Homeland Hotel. It was surprisingly cheap, yet had these subtle touches done to it which made it a true treasure.
The tones were set on fire as light from the setting sun shone in through the window and lit the room with a beautiful crimson hue. The swirls danced, creating visuals and figures that stood out to the studying eye, but disappeared as soon as that eye wandered. No two spots on this ceiling were the same, making it a gem few ever stopped to admire; a snowflake surrounded by identical concrete blocks commissioned by mindless corporations.
There were few places that cared about their guests as much as the Homeland Hotel. These days hotels were chains, settling for quantity of rooms over the quality of the stay. Always a vacancy, never a treat. Filled with cheap furniture and false luxuries. The bare minimum, perhaps a little more, but that was it. The hotel grading system, one to five stars, did not seem right. The Homeland was a three and a half star hotel, but it was better than most five star luxury hotels.
Beside the dancing fingers of a flaming sunset on the ceiling, the place was furnished and decorated for comfort. The bed, a queen size, was soft and the quilt covering it seemed almost homemade. The comforter below the quilt was carefully selected, not too thick to cause warm, sleepless nights, yet not too thin that the hotel guest felt naked sleeping under it. And then the sheets, which smelt and felt as if they had been washed and dried just minutes ago, all the time. An everlasting freshness that lured even the hardest of sleepers into a restful sleep.
The furniture matched perfectly. The wood of the nightstand, the desk, the cabinet where the TV was and the shelves on the wall could only be mahogany. It wasn’t painted and the designs in the wood could be traced into stunning designs much like the swirls of the beige paint on the ceiling. The chair at the desk, and the one in the corner, were both made of the same wood, yet never creaked. They were cushioned on the seat and the back and were as comfortable as the bed to sit on. Never wearing away at the posture, hurting the back or the tailbone.
On the walls was a plain dark red wallpaper, simple yet effective. The color worked well with the mahogany, creating an almost perfect transition from where the wood ended and the wall took over. There was also the scattered picture; enough of them to keep the walls from seeming to bare, yet not enough to seem too cluttered. Each one accentuated the decor, whether it was the simple painting of a red rose, so deep in its color that it matched the room, or the black and white photograph of a harbour front, the sunset (or maybe it was a sunrise) over it so vivid it seemed to pulse with color despite its lacking.
Dante had appreciated the quality of this room the first day he came.
Now the room was a disaster. The mahogany desk was littered with newspapers, with clippings scotch taped to the wall, anything that had any possible link to the Two. The nightstand was covered with bottles of sleep-aids and liquor, many of the pills littering the floor around the stand, as well as few empty bottles.
His duster lay thrown over the perfect little chair in the corner, covering up the floral design on the cushions. His hat hanging off one of the nails in the walls, the painting of the red rose, so well done it could have been passed as a pressed flower, which had hung on the nail now lay face down against the wall off to the side. His shoes were kicked off near the door and the clothes he had worn over his stay there was thrown uselessly to the side and scattered about the stainless carpet.
The beige curtains had been drawn across, and the blinds pulled down, almost completely blocking out the setting sun. They put out the flames that danced on the ceiling, casting the world of swirls where infinite visuals, pictures and faces could be found into deep shadow. The only thing lighting the room was a slim ray of light that snuck through a gap in the blinds where they had been improperly pulled down.
The bed had been torn apart, the quilt cast aside and the comforter snaked across the bed, covering only half of what it was meant to. Dante lay beneath the sheets, sweat causing his silvery blonde hair to cling to his forehead as he waited for the sleep-aids to kick in. In his hand he held an empty glass that had contained the liquor whose purpose was to chase down the sleep-aids.
That night three days ago, it kept playing over in his head. He had stepped into the ring, had been in complete control of himself throughout the entire match, even when the goat had been introduced. His body still ached, but he didn’t notice. Shortly after he left the bar, he had broken down. Only a few blocks from the hotel a cold sweat had broken over him and he started shaking uncontrollably.
The entire thing, this wrestling business, this is where it all had started. The Two, Johnny and Roger, they had recruited him to be their wrestler in the FCW. They had taken Annabelle, the girl who he had retrieved a doll for only a few days before then. It was because of him, because he had helped her, that she had been dragged into this mess. And then, right before his debut appearance, the bastard Marcus Ash had run out, abandoned the FCW, and messed up the entire situation.
But Ash was not to blame. It was the Two’s fault. And now they had him back in that ring. And once again, they had him under their control. They knew he lusted for their blood, to finish them off, to avenge Annabelle. They knew this and they used it. In order for him to get to them, he had to become their lapdog once again, albeit indirectly. He had only realized this after the match, realized that he had gone right back to wrestling under their influence without hesitating to think about it once.
That damnable ring, they were somehow capable of directing whomever they saw fit into going to that ring, becoming their dog. He had no doubt one of those other men that night had been a dog for the Two. But he just couldn’t focus enough to see who it was! Since he broke down, he had gotten perhaps five hours of sleep and it was tearing at his brain. Sleep-aids helped nothing, and turned him to that vile bottle that ruins so many men, yet it did not help either.
Annabelle! That last sight he had gotten of her, when his bullet had struck her, kept replaying in his head. Her heart retching scream upon impact, and the life fading from her eyes. He was living a nightmare, one he could not end. One he did not want to end! The sight of her, that scream, those eyes, they fuelled his rage against the Two. He would find them, and then he would kill them. But the image of their fading eyes, of their screams, of the injuries he would inflict upon them. They would not fill his nightmares.
They would fill his dreams.
The tones were set on fire as light from the setting sun shone in through the window and lit the room with a beautiful crimson hue. The swirls danced, creating visuals and figures that stood out to the studying eye, but disappeared as soon as that eye wandered. No two spots on this ceiling were the same, making it a gem few ever stopped to admire; a snowflake surrounded by identical concrete blocks commissioned by mindless corporations.
There were few places that cared about their guests as much as the Homeland Hotel. These days hotels were chains, settling for quantity of rooms over the quality of the stay. Always a vacancy, never a treat. Filled with cheap furniture and false luxuries. The bare minimum, perhaps a little more, but that was it. The hotel grading system, one to five stars, did not seem right. The Homeland was a three and a half star hotel, but it was better than most five star luxury hotels.
Beside the dancing fingers of a flaming sunset on the ceiling, the place was furnished and decorated for comfort. The bed, a queen size, was soft and the quilt covering it seemed almost homemade. The comforter below the quilt was carefully selected, not too thick to cause warm, sleepless nights, yet not too thin that the hotel guest felt naked sleeping under it. And then the sheets, which smelt and felt as if they had been washed and dried just minutes ago, all the time. An everlasting freshness that lured even the hardest of sleepers into a restful sleep.
The furniture matched perfectly. The wood of the nightstand, the desk, the cabinet where the TV was and the shelves on the wall could only be mahogany. It wasn’t painted and the designs in the wood could be traced into stunning designs much like the swirls of the beige paint on the ceiling. The chair at the desk, and the one in the corner, were both made of the same wood, yet never creaked. They were cushioned on the seat and the back and were as comfortable as the bed to sit on. Never wearing away at the posture, hurting the back or the tailbone.
On the walls was a plain dark red wallpaper, simple yet effective. The color worked well with the mahogany, creating an almost perfect transition from where the wood ended and the wall took over. There was also the scattered picture; enough of them to keep the walls from seeming to bare, yet not enough to seem too cluttered. Each one accentuated the decor, whether it was the simple painting of a red rose, so deep in its color that it matched the room, or the black and white photograph of a harbour front, the sunset (or maybe it was a sunrise) over it so vivid it seemed to pulse with color despite its lacking.
Dante had appreciated the quality of this room the first day he came.
Now the room was a disaster. The mahogany desk was littered with newspapers, with clippings scotch taped to the wall, anything that had any possible link to the Two. The nightstand was covered with bottles of sleep-aids and liquor, many of the pills littering the floor around the stand, as well as few empty bottles.
His duster lay thrown over the perfect little chair in the corner, covering up the floral design on the cushions. His hat hanging off one of the nails in the walls, the painting of the red rose, so well done it could have been passed as a pressed flower, which had hung on the nail now lay face down against the wall off to the side. His shoes were kicked off near the door and the clothes he had worn over his stay there was thrown uselessly to the side and scattered about the stainless carpet.
The beige curtains had been drawn across, and the blinds pulled down, almost completely blocking out the setting sun. They put out the flames that danced on the ceiling, casting the world of swirls where infinite visuals, pictures and faces could be found into deep shadow. The only thing lighting the room was a slim ray of light that snuck through a gap in the blinds where they had been improperly pulled down.
The bed had been torn apart, the quilt cast aside and the comforter snaked across the bed, covering only half of what it was meant to. Dante lay beneath the sheets, sweat causing his silvery blonde hair to cling to his forehead as he waited for the sleep-aids to kick in. In his hand he held an empty glass that had contained the liquor whose purpose was to chase down the sleep-aids.
That night three days ago, it kept playing over in his head. He had stepped into the ring, had been in complete control of himself throughout the entire match, even when the goat had been introduced. His body still ached, but he didn’t notice. Shortly after he left the bar, he had broken down. Only a few blocks from the hotel a cold sweat had broken over him and he started shaking uncontrollably.
The entire thing, this wrestling business, this is where it all had started. The Two, Johnny and Roger, they had recruited him to be their wrestler in the FCW. They had taken Annabelle, the girl who he had retrieved a doll for only a few days before then. It was because of him, because he had helped her, that she had been dragged into this mess. And then, right before his debut appearance, the bastard Marcus Ash had run out, abandoned the FCW, and messed up the entire situation.
But Ash was not to blame. It was the Two’s fault. And now they had him back in that ring. And once again, they had him under their control. They knew he lusted for their blood, to finish them off, to avenge Annabelle. They knew this and they used it. In order for him to get to them, he had to become their lapdog once again, albeit indirectly. He had only realized this after the match, realized that he had gone right back to wrestling under their influence without hesitating to think about it once.
That damnable ring, they were somehow capable of directing whomever they saw fit into going to that ring, becoming their dog. He had no doubt one of those other men that night had been a dog for the Two. But he just couldn’t focus enough to see who it was! Since he broke down, he had gotten perhaps five hours of sleep and it was tearing at his brain. Sleep-aids helped nothing, and turned him to that vile bottle that ruins so many men, yet it did not help either.
Annabelle! That last sight he had gotten of her, when his bullet had struck her, kept replaying in his head. Her heart retching scream upon impact, and the life fading from her eyes. He was living a nightmare, one he could not end. One he did not want to end! The sight of her, that scream, those eyes, they fuelled his rage against the Two. He would find them, and then he would kill them. But the image of their fading eyes, of their screams, of the injuries he would inflict upon them. They would not fill his nightmares.
They would fill his dreams.
