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ever illicit romantic trysts they engaged in. The thing that first struck me (and struck me hard) as I opened the door—the thing that stays with me to this day— is the smell of the place. I can honestly still smell it. The pungent stench of a thousand ghosts of cigarettes long forgotten clung to the cardboard walls like a bad memory. The scent is forever etched into my mind and will always remind me that no matter how bad my surroundings are, there is always somewhere worse. Setting aside the overpowering gloom of despair intermixed with the air, hell, that was the air, the room was a straightforward one. It consisted of basically two sections: a bathroom, which included a shower one could use to try to scrub off the sad, and a bedroom with a mattress that looked as if it had weathered its fair share of deviancy. Time-beaten wooden things furnished the less-than-spacious pit. The room was made smaller by the wallpaper. The paper, a vile shade of yellow, erratically covered the wall and had a strange and terrible dizzying effect. The pattern on it was an abomination of design; the asymmetrical loops, curls, and abrupt twists led the eye towards somewhere evil, a place of abject intensity. That room, and the hotel at large, was designed with one thing in mind, to provide limited refuge for troubled souls 71

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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