The Chelsea Girls

Each room at the Chelsea remembers the people who’ve passed within its walls, as if the names and dates have been etched on the grubby doorframes. This one had held the bloated poet who trod over discarded candy wrappers and dirty shirts, rolling himself onto the bed with a groan as the springs of the mattress answered with high-pitched creaks. He took a swig of whatever sat on the bedside table, coughing and retching, then another to swill away the taste of his own bile.

His girl, assistant, lover, slept quietly beside him, and he didn’t blame her; he was the cause of her exhaustion. But he was wide-awake: The hallucinations returned, frightening him, the swirls of phantoms circling closer and closer. A gentlewoman stretched out her hand, her rings glistening like tears, while the long-dead painters studied the scene as they would a pietà. The hum of musicians grew louder, the vibrations flowing through plaster and stone. The poet had sighed and let go and drifted up, joining the others.

Years later, the room would prepare to swallow one more soul. Already, the breaths of the woman on the bed were becoming increasingly jagged.

The poet joined hands with his fellow wraiths, and together they waited.