The boiler room a coat of dull red paint blanketed in another coat of thick dirt and grime.
A penitent filled with self-hatred hunched over swimming in vodka amphetamine and depressed psychosis takes the butterfly knife out from a plush leopard print handbag and rests it against the smooth skin of the wrist.
Somewhere under the surface a vein is translucent blue. Then powder-purple-under-candy-orange as a neon sign somewhere at the top of the stairs switches on changing the hue of everything. Blinking on and off, gas filled tubes probably bent into the shape of the logo of some god-awful cheap domestic hog swill that gets sold as beer. With eyes in the throes of a psychotic break, the blue and purple veins become roads, trails along a beach where the blade is a docked boat waiting to sail…anyplace. The grimy walls and banging boiler dissolve into orange, pink and salmon colored sands.
The penitent and the butterfly knife ruminate on the sandy trails for almost and hour. That’s how long it takes before it occurs to anyone to look for them and tell them(well, one of them) to get on stage.