The flames chatter to themselves in the fireplace, an eerie dialogue of insanity for any who walk near. Two armchairs, leather skin pulled tight over their flames, duel in silence. Each is precariously turned towards the other, foul words of a previous conversation hanging in the stale air.
But my calamity lies with the heads.
A line from a novel comes to me,
“We bear the grins of the smiling dead.”
So truthful a description, for a place such as this.
A macabre theatre of plaques and glass eyes, static veins and dull teeth. A glass of amber liquid – whiskey probably – sits on the coffee table, a buffer zone between the somber chairs.
It reflects the cruelty, the sourness, of this grim parlor.