#1852

I remember it all. Kneeling on the carpet, dragging my fingers through the thick white fibers, I remember the cloying scent of blood, the stains darkening as they dried. Rising to press my palms against the tall windows, I remember the chill wind whistling around spires of broken glass, how the shards glittered on the carpet like snow in moonlight. In the silence I hear the ghost echo of raised voices, cries of pain and ecstasy, shattering glass, gunshots. In the stillness of the empty room I yet recall every moment passed in these halls, and beyond; every word, every detail, every sensation. Rich carpet, cool crystal, sleek marble. Acrid cigarette smoke, hot skin, digging fingers. Promises and lies. Death and death. This place is a tomb. This place is my church.

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