DIAMONDS IN THE TRENCHES

09 | the darker ages



THE ORIGINAL SIN remained here, within us all, as permanent as the damage it had caused to humanity. It stayed and grew like poison ivy over forest trees, dressing them in slow, suffocating death. It was because of that disposition to destruction that I, like a sylvan at the full moon, snuck out of my hotel room to drown in champagne for one more night.

Sitting in the hotel bar, I was glad that the bartender was prattling on about politics with two other guys, and I was left alone and undisturbed to stare at the colorful paintings hanging on the walls. One great thing about Pioneers—and probably the only great thing about working for them—was the hotels they booked for us. The staff always kept up its high-class manners, breakfast was always delicious and the interior design could make anyone feel like they were important.

It was almost ridiculous how I had changed into a dark green satin dress when I was not doing anything fascinating tonight. It was borderline pathetic how it was Saturday, the weather was fine, and I was alone. What a failure of an existence I was, I thought to myself and took a sip from my champagne.

Looking around at the paintings again, my eyes fell upon one I had not noticed earlier. It stood right behind the bartender, covering only a small part of the wall and depicting a couple holding their hands while staring at a black hole. The way everything was colored black and dark red except for the couple that looked triumphant in silver paint should have made me feel some type of way. Instead, my heartbeat fastened at the remembrance.

At the remembrance of that psychoanalytic theory that like an ax struck the hearts of all the shallow ones, the countless people like me. According to that theory, there was that hole within us all, at the very bottom of which lay our core, our truest sense of self. The thing was that we should not expect to ever reach our core, the bottom of the hole, the truest part of us. We should not expect that because it was just humanely impossible. But the more labels and identities about ourselves we threw into that hole, the farther away we moved from our true self; the more we lost ourselves. So maybe, if I stopped identifying as a failure, I would stop feeling like one.

"I hate melancholic places." A voice came from behind me, upbeat and almost too loud for the midnight hours.

I did not need to turn around at him. I knew exactly to whom those words had belonged. Nonetheless, Abel appeared from behind me in a hurricane of motion, positioning himself on the empty chair next to mine. His hair was a concoction of red curls, even more so than usual, as if he had just gotten out of the shower. The silver chain around his neck was the only thing breaking the blackness of his outfit—that chain and his white Converse.

I took him in, and I took my sweet time doing so. The silver hoop in his ear caught the light of the crystal chandelier that hung over our heads, and I wondered how he could so effortlessly attract everything sparkling.

His stare landed on my face, his smile growing wider. "And this place screams melancholy."

"Austin and Christine will use this night to rest and recharge," I said. "So I don't think they find this hotel melancholic. For them, it's more like an oasis."

"And why would I care about how they find it?" he asked, then lifted an injured hand to the bartender and ordered himself a soda. I did not have him for the type to not put any alcohol in his system, especially when the next thing he did was get a cigarette pack out of his jacket, alongside a lighter, and have grey clouds of smoke fill the space between us.

"Where's the bandage?" I asked, too tired to pretend I had not noticed.

He lifted his glass to his mouth, downed the liquor in one gulp and pushed the glass to the side. "Stop acting like you're everyone's mother."