Leave Me In The Pool Rooms

The air seems to clear when it comes into view. Sliding glass doors are stuck open and nature has already ravaged the lobby within. Cushions are melting from chairs like tender meat off the bone, only to reveal fungus-ridden wooden frames. Strips of moldy wallpaper bow their sodden heads. The carpet squelches beneath your feet.

But you forge deeper, injured and ill, through endless halls of locked rooms. You could have checked the reception for keys, should have, but you don't want to return yet. Each floor you've climbed is less impacted by the conditions outside and you're drawn up, up, up to the top. The pool.

It's in pristine condition, entirely unbothered by the rot beneath, and the scent of chlorine makes your eyes water. The decision to shed your gear and sink into the basin is hardly your own.

There is no transition from cold to warm. In fact, in an instant, you've forgotten what it was like to be anything but perfectly content. Dried blood melts away to reveal smooth skin. Dirt and sweat dissipate into nothing. Callouses and bruises are no more.

You remain for longer than you can count, floating aimlessly, immune to dissatisfaction or boredom. Not even the slide piques your interest. When you grow thirsty, you drink. When you grow hungry, you wait for the waters to soothe it.

You wait a while. Days cycle from light, to dark, to light, until you can't bear it any longer. It's time to go. You clamp a fist around the rail and heave yourself up the stairs.

Gravity hits first. The full force of it nearly glues your soles to the ground. Then air, frigid as the forest outside. You're dripping blood from reopened wounds, sore in places you've never felt, and the shock topples you.

There's no splash when you hit the water. It was already waiting.

Doctor visits