The room was small and dark. The air was humid and had a stale, musty smell to it. You would think that the building should have been condemned and abandoned long ago.
The door, hanging loosely on two rusty hinges, could barely be opened enough to let a person pass. The floor was littered with junk ranging from filthy socks that stood unsupported, to half a pizza that was far beyond edible. A small trail was snaking its way across the room. That trail was the only place where you could see through to the dingy dark green carpet beneath all the trash. Leaning up against the wall in the far corner of the room was a small table. The table was missing a leg, and had an old partially burnt copy of the book “Great Expectations” teetering precariously over its edge.
The wallpaper was peeling off the wall to the left of the doorway. A few rays of sunlight peered in from the boarded-over window in the far wall to pierce through the gloom. The other two walls were even worse off. They had several holes of varying sizes which revealed the studs hiding within. The little bit of wall that remained unharmed was covered with graffiti. Only a couple of the phrases spray painted sloppily on the walls could be deciphered. One of them could be made out to say “smoke the bud,” and the other said “shrooms forever.” Several faded posters of Marilyn Manson and Ozzy Osborn were stuck randomly onto the walls. A single light fixture was hanging down by its wires from a hole in the middle of the ceiling. The jagged edges of its broken light bulb seemed to be waiting for someone to hit his head.