The heat was a physical force, and that cunning dark laughter kept streaming from underneath the hallway door. My gaze was lingering on exactly what might be happening in that closed room. Endless boxes of old files, containing tired little notes on countless people littered the tight confines of this utterly vulgar corridor. Jeze left me to explore another part of the abandoned building . This was her idea of doing something different. Possessing a definitive neutrality when it came to fulfilling Jeze's requests; I just couldn't say no to something I'd never done before. My nature is aggressively attracted to different, and my spark of interest was abruptly burning hot. Experience is a subjective word for Jeze.
The wet cement floor and brick walls seemed to be covered with a black glycerin substance. Normality had indeed forgotten this dark little corner of nowhere, but I was there. Standing in this dimly lit freak-show. Alone.
I think we all sort of make a brilliant leap of intuition when faced with the hollow rush of fear. You may think you're not scarred, but you are. Your brain will lie to you; and your body will tell you that it can do things it can't.
It's an important moment, an interesting place to be in. It just seems that the annoyance of deception is that you might not get the chance to learn from it. I think the fleshy substance called my mind was wondering where in the hell was the cultivator of this particular rush; Jeze. She was probably safe somewhere. She's tossed me into the lions den before, knowing that I would somehow managed to survive, but I don't suffer from denial and this place was abstractly different.
I felt greasy, frozen next to that stack of moldy decaying boxes, listening to that insane snickering coming from that room. Some professionals believe that you can't write about something unless you experience it first-hand. I disagree. Jeze knows this about me, she owns some of my best work. Maybe she just wants to read something a little darker.
