Photo by Zoran Kokanovic on Unsplash
Words press into me as a description of the candle-lit room. Floorboards stripped back to old wood, with a mattress written into one corner. A carving knife sits on the table near the door, with its serrated edge against the wood’s throat.
Condensation breathes against bare glass with no curtains to hide behind. The panes of the large bay window are unreadable mirror pages, black with heavily repeated text. To the right is a smaller leaded window, barred like a prison cell.
Candles burn on many levels. Their flames writhe in spastic silver shadows on the damp walls.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Chapter 23 by James Garside to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.