You’re battling more than exhaustion at this point. The witching hour has begun, heady air and obscure faces mocking the shadows. The curses--which are supposed to hide in alleyways and behind masks--begin gliding along paved roads. They’re clinging to you, tugging your arms this way and that, softly coaxing you into their realm.
Cursing beneath your breath, you finally catch sight of your hotel. When you’d arrived that morning, it seemed secular enough: free of joss papers, crosses, garlic jungles and other knick knacks meant to ward off the supernatural. The sole Yelp review for the building claimed that curses never went near the hotel. But when you arrive at the entrance now, there was something otherworldly about the flashing red lights of “七つの大罪 ”(Seven Deadly Sins).
Ignoring your inner turmoil, you push the doors open and pass through. You tread softly on the plush red carpet of the hotel lobby. The air hangs on your shoulder like a curse too, its weight putting you off yet pulsing perfectly in tune with the humming of the aircon. You walk past the napping clerk at the check-in desk and bypass the empty snack shop, peering into several open hallways before stumbling across the one you need: the elevator.
Relieved, you pace towards the gates, your old sneakers thumping along the floor. The vast hallway, with its timeless tan paint and Lovecraftian art lining the walls, extends to a single elevator. You press the call button, brushing the dust now on your finger onto the floor. You glance to your side in waiting.
Nailed on the wall is a large framed mirror. Its position shows only up to your waist but your sunken eyes and sagging outfit are irrelevant when you catch sight of black wisps trailing off of you. Suddenly awake, you whirl your head to the mirror. You see nothing but yourself.
The elevator dings.
You turn your attention back to it and cross the portal. Releasing your breath, you chalk your sightings up to exhaustion.
What a shame.
Once inside, you click the “8” button and loiter near the entrance of the elevator. You hear the whirring of its mechanics and breathe.
Soon, the elevator dings.
Confused at the speed of your arrival, you glance at the green digits in the upper corner of the booth. The bright “1” on the screen doesn’t reassure you.
The gate opens and you face a teenage boy: slicked back blond hair and acute ocean eyes, his slouching posture contradicts the sharp suit he wears. He seems around your height but one look in his eyes and you know his ego isn’t the same.
He takes a single step, interfering with the elevator’s closing. From this proximity, you can smell the remnants of smoke exuding from his suit. You make a face and gesture vaguely around him. He shrugs. “Kerosene’s cheaper than therapy.”
Raised eyebrows. “Not when you include the cost of bail.”
A catlike grin. “Just don’t get caught.”
Raised confidence. “Your criminal record says you aren’t very good at that.
The teen’s surprised expression quickly morphs into a smug smile. He steps back, sticks a hand in his pocket, and uses the other hand to give a two-fingered salute just as the gates shut. “I think you’ll be just fine.”
You feel a crumb of pride settling in you, stable as the elevator moves up.
Then, the elevator dings again.
This time, when the doors open, you’re met with a little girl.
Blonde hair in twin tails, a pink bow in each, her blue eyes sparkle at you with a ruthless cruelty only children possess. Her grubby hands are cupped together and pushed towards you, demanding anything. Her head barely passes your hip so her neck is craned to maintain eye contact. In the end, you surrender and pull your eyes away first.
You peer at the floor-length mirror on the opposite wall, but you don’t see the girl’s head. Instead, a gaping mouth, just below her scalp, presents itself. It grins at you with the pointed teeth and malicious intent that her eyes held. Gasping, you quickly revert your gaze back to the little girl.
Age notwithstanding, her attention span is locked, her stare still set on you and her hands still splayed out in request. She smiles innocently, all wide and toothy, but her canine teeth are a little too sharp. Leaning closer, she whispers in delight, “If I wanted to, I could take your everything.”
As the elevator doors shut, you hear the tinkling laughter of impish greed.
Your brows furrow in confusion. But when the elevator again brings you to a floor that isn’t the eighth, you have other concerns.
The elevator dings.
You see an old man, gentle features and gentler motions, holding a bouquet of dandelions. His expression brightens as the elevator opens up, but then dims upon seeing who you are.
You make to step closer, wanting to understand the old man’s fallen face, until he sets the flowers at his feet and pulls out a hand mirror and comb. He starts brushing through the graying blonde hairs atop his head and checks his other angles.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“I am.”
“Did you lose them?”
“I did.”
“How?”
“We walked down different roads.”
“What was yours?”
Finally, he lowers his mirror. He smiles ruefully and gestures around him.
Then you see it. Hidden behind the sofas, swept under the tables, stuck in the walls are remnants of beer bottles, wedding plans, playing cards and dreams. All around are memories of what used to be, swarmed by an alcoholic daze of what now is. The old man chuckles, knowing you understand.
“Gluttony. It brings you down the wrong road.”
The doors slide together as you see the old man slowly bend down and grab the bundle of dandelions again. Unrelenting hunger, it means, and unrelenting hope all the while.
When the elevator stops again, you can barely refrain from keeling over. The stench outside has you retreating into the corner and covering your face.
The elevator dings.
The gates open to display a floor littered with the hotel’s signature throw pillows and blankets. The large sofas and side tables that once lined the walls are haphazardly balanced atop each other in the very back.
As you approach the door, you see papers sprawled all over: a half-written essay, unfinished to-do lists, torn medical prescriptions, and a pile of homework. Scanning the room, you squint at the spilt coffee, half-eaten yogurt, empty chip bags, and milk carton whose expiration date turns out to be six months ago. Well, that explains the smell.
In the center of all the pillows lies a hopeless teenage boy, petulant and exhausted, the whorl of his hair towards you. Draped over a larger cushion, he sits up and cranes his neck to spare you a look. His greasy brown hair slumps defeated on his head and his eyes blink at you, wholly absent from this world.
Right beside his left leg is a bottle of pills, opened and spilling across the blankets. You recognize the name. The boy scans your expression and tilts his head, “Do you remember where you saw it last?”
You do. (As if you could forget. It’s the last thing she held on to. You remember her hungry sunken eyes. You remember her sloth-like steps as she treaded to the bathroom and never left. So yes, you remember.) You nod.
His features soften and he smiles at you like you’re a tragedy he’s seen before. But that movement alone seems to drain the last of his energy so his face falls back to a frown.
Breaking eye contact with you, he collapses into the cushions and gazes at the ceiling. “I was going to do it, but I got too lazy.”
And that’s the end of his explanation.
So you nod, mainly for yourself, and toe backwards. You let the elevator doors shut again; then you hear his final plea: “Is it really my sin if it’s the world that made me this way?”
Who knows, you think. You feel the elevator ride up regardless, relentless in its regular motions.
The elevator dings, but you can’t hear anything over the indistinct shouting outside.
When the gates glide apart, you see people in every corner of the hallway. Faceless characters scream profanities and cacophonous chants flood the hallway. Any one can go in, but no one can get out.
All the while, a short girl slinks through the chaos, provoking and pulling the tides of this tornado. Her frizzy red hair bounces after her, catching the electricity in the air; the charisma of her exaggerated gestures, the emote of her speeches--she’s a walking propaganda.
Eventually, she catches sight of you in the elevator. She waves excitedly at you, beckoning for you to come in; her oversized hoodie flaps around like a giant red flag.
Hoping to understand, you make to trek forward, your stomach leaping at the prospect of dispute. But a fight begins to break out in one corner of the hallway, spiraling past tension. Her neck whirls that direction, green eyes gleaming mischievously at the prospect of natural disaster. Before she vanishes, she shouts at you, but her words are submerged in the next wave of noise.
She doesn’t know that though, so as the elevator doors close, you watch her person fade into the crowd, lost in another sea of wrath.
This time, as you move up, you hear drunken giggles streaming from out the door, contagious pleasure seeping through the metal cracks.
And the elevator dings.
When the gate opens, you feel it: a thick, pulsating lust.
It’s wrapping itself around your neck, curling under the ends of your shirt. It grasps onto your ankles and guides you into the frameway of the elevator door.
Then you see it, or rather, them.
Two males, a couple. They dance about with ease, obeying a tune only they can hear. All around the hallway they move, feet never colliding with the sofas and gliding past the split champagne on the floor.
The shorter one, with tousled hair and soft eyes, easily dips his partner into a dramatic pose. His partner’s long hair falls back, revealing a heart-shaped grin and eyes closed with elation.
A kiss on the crown. “I want to feel your touch.”
A soft exhale. “So drink me in like a sin.”
A tinkling laugh. “You’re my favorite sin.”
Then without a word, the shorter one pulls his partner upright and curls a sultry smile. He raises a brow in challenge. The mood shifts and suddenly, their suits seem too tight for their flitting steps. Whispered breaths become sensual taunts, and lust pulls pride into a courting ritual.
They’re caught in their own cycle; the ephermity of life is left behind in the swift steps of the foxtrot and the illustrious twirls of the waltz. So you creep back into the elevator, careful not to disrupt the smooth tension in the air. As doors close, the taller one grants you a look and a charming wink.
Thankful for this reprieve, you smile, but the elevator moves up and you grimace at the hollow scent of money in the air.
The elevator dings.
Wary of this level, you stand against the elevator walls, giving a glare to the bright “7”. Good thing for your instincts, because as the gate opens once more, a tall suited male looms right in front of it, seemingly an older version of the hubristic teen.
His blonde hair is still styled fashionably but his lips are molded in a shallow, camera-ready smile. Although he dons black shades, you can feel his judging eyes roam over your appearance. He scoffs and relaxes his posture, so it seems your outfit is below enviable.
He carries a brown dandelion-patterned briefcase on his left, a tailored suit accentuating his lean physique. There’s a circle of lighter skin on his left ring finger, a mark of someone abandoned. Instead, his right hand adorns a glinting ring: its gaudy blue jewel looks like heresy and its glamor falls decades short of authenticity. As it catches the light, you recall reading about the Oppenheimer Blue ring, sold at nearly $57.5 million earlier that month.
You let out a shaky exhale, pretending not to understand. It doesn’t work. He sees your shuffling feet, and his eyes gleam alight. Crossing the gates but keeping a foot outside, the man bends at the waist to meet your height. His fingers lift your chin towards him and you can feel his breath on your face.
A raised brow. “You know what road envy brings you down, don’t you?”
Avoided eyes. “No.”
A catlike grin. “Don’t lie.”
Parched throat. “I’m not.”
Abruptly, he releases a disgusting laugh and releases his grasp on you. He pulls back and returns to the allway, then stands there staring at you, as if contemplating how to imitate a farewell. Shortly after, he plasters on a placating smile and waves you adieu.
Somehow, you feel as if you’ve lost.
The elevator dings.
The green digits finally beep “8” at you, but there’s no relief. Passing the portal, you speed to your hotel room and miss your reflection in the large mirror, left of the elevator’s door. You don’t notice how the black wisps circling your heels leave marks every time your sneakers collide with the carpet. So when you slam your door open, you’re confused by what you see.
If you hadn’t been so hasteful, so fearful, so sinful, so undeniably human---you’d understand why that canine grin from 6 floors below is greeting you up here.
But alas, what a shame.
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