Creative Writing: The Inferno

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blades of contempt. The
walls of mockery laugh at me as I foolishly try to climb them to rid myself of
its presence. Yet there is no escape. I have inflicted more pain upon myself.
Nothing is soft in here; everything is jagged. My un-sanded wooden dresser
rests on the right side of the doorway. Figures of dancers with invisible
partners lie atop the uneven surface. They seem to move slowly across the
dresser, like seaweed drifting aimlessly across the sea. My unpleasant and
discomforting bed of stone rests in the center of the room. It is not the usual
shape of a bed. Rather, it seems as if it were molded to fit my body alone. Is
there no solace? The closet stands only two feet away from the front of the bed.
Inside is a world of death and destruction. My clothes are victims of either
neglect or overuse. My shoes, an array of black, sit near the foot of the
closet. They too are innocent victims of negligence or abuse. They are
casualties of an reckless spirit. ...

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