Literary Work
Nithid
THE RUSTED RITE Chase Chasteen
Dreary gray, mid-mourning light diffused onto the dying phoenix, feathers flustered, falling up from the eight-hundred thread count ashy percale. California promised to bestow sunlight but instead eclipsed it behind plumes of smoke, hiding from its disdain for the life it immolated below. Tiny orange pills visited with more frequency now, punching, with cumulatively less effect, the turbulent hands - wildfires themselves enraged with conviction lost - unable to punch back. Eager ears would first see the brightness abound as the benzos rattled, like the last few Tic-Tacs, a fervent desire to escape their plastic prison. The once sprawling resort, my charge to manage, succumbed to her viral fate and devolved into a sad, lonely kingdom and I into her proud, narcissistic prince. With then unspoken vows of vanity and greed, I consumed whatever light still radiated from her desert. “Everyone wants this.” I gestured outwardly, gaze fixed with bloodshot eyes at the river-stone fireplace illuminating the corner of the five-star, twelve-hundred square foot hotel suite I alone would occupy for another eight months. Rivers rushed tumultuously through the ten floodgates adding depth to the oversized, fiberglass jacuzzi tub, my chasm of comfort, where I would hourly spend before marking the next X
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on the calendar. Credits rolled and, with an indifferent shrug at the shriveled ending to yet another pay-per-view film, I drained the warmth. With just enough strength to twist off the ridged cap to my eye drops, my shaky hands reached for the brand new iPhone Pro, battery fully charged to my retired mother’s credit card. Its digital shutter sounded the three times necessary to capture the perfect bathroom lighting my cheekbones and Instagram followers deserved. Half-naked, I bared all yet borne naught - loaning out my dignity for the fleeting euphoria rendered by each tiny red heart pumping through the pixels and into my veins the fix necessary to continue this relentless routine. Having no patrons scheduled to visit for the near future, I shed my woolen livery and traded it for a uniform of black synthetic sweats and a baseball hat. Commuting through the empty parking lot toward the temperamental espresso machine in the kitchen, I spotted Wilson, the long-revered, iconic soul of the property, steady hand extended as I approached. “Hey, buddy!” I shouted from across the cracked asphalt. “What’s new?” After a purposeful slap onto his copper-forged palm, I fakesmiled and continued on, wiping off onto my athleisure suit
