The air was thick with dust and loneliness,
Depression leaked from the thick cracks that scarred the surface of the decaying wall,
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Thick waves of cobweb hung from the ceiling, begging to be acknowledged for the artworks they aspired to be,
The light layer of dust masked the window; it adorned the hole that had been left behind by whatever violent force was guilty,
The battered wooden floor bickered through heavy, strained creaks about the oppression it suffered through the tyrant of old age,
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The empty space dwelling on the surface of the brittle desk accentuated its abandonment,
As the doors of the cupboard creaked open, the emptiness living beyond them screamed isolation,
The black patches, ringed by dark brown stains, latching like parasites onto the naked mattress whispered tales of an enraged blaze that hungered for ashes,
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The painting that hung on the wall roared in agony for the deep dents and hollow scratches that declared war on its surface,
The shattered light bulb begged to be divorced from the ceiling and put out of its misery,
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Even the city's most feared ghosts threw a riot at the idea of haunting this room,
For they knew they would end up being the haunted.
