A Box of Weeds

The Burning City

The city raged with a fire that burned but did not consume. I’d awakened in a warehouse down the street, filled with crates of odd metal contraptions that looked like ancient torture devices.

There were shouts, and sometimes whispers. I thought I heard someone rasp “Get down! They’ll see you!” but I couldn’t be sure.

The heat. The city felt as if it sat atop a giant sun, pulsing and vibrating with volcanic activity, threatening to engulf my hair and beard. but not so much as harming a single strand.

I didn’t know where I was supposed to be, so I tried to focus on getting somewhere safe. I was exposed out here, the city seemed to point at me with silent ridicule.

The streets were empty, abandoned. The place felt like a movie set, a reproduction of skyscrapers, billboards, and concrete. A gothic style house nearby had an open door. I allowed the void to suck me in, draw me closer.

No sooner had I reached the threshold of the strange house, that awareness plowed me over and knocked the wind out of me.

This was my house! Or at least, an exact house like this in the mortal’s realm. This should have thrilled me, but instead I wretched in a corner, bringing up a thick, black, bitter substance.

I remembered my death vividly. How the bullet ripped through my chest. The father of the dead girl pulling the trigger only hours ago. How I used to thirst for blood!

This must be home.

666 Hell Boulevard.