The room is dim and smoky and a thin layer of grime covers every surface. The only light comes from a small section of the window opposite me where the black paint, an attempt to stifle the atmosphere of the room, is flaking off. I pull the last cigarette out of my top pocket and strike a match. As I inhale the smoke it soothes me, and for a moment I forget what I’m here for, what I’m here to do.
I try to distract myself by taking in my surroundings, aware that they may be the last ones I find myself in. There is a fireplace to my left, long forgotten. Clusters of cobwebs line its blackened walls, walls that once housed a roaring fire. Broken pieces of tile cover the floor, a hazardous wasteland. Put one foot wrong and you’ll know immediately. The splinters will tear your feet to shreds. I pick my way through the sharp fragments, towards the bar on the other side of the room. I close my eyes and try to remember what this place looked like before…
Before what exactly?
What happened?
My memories come flooding back. The crackling fire provided warmth for the civilians who spent day after day within these walls, fearing the horrors outside. Men from town sat at the bar, cracking drunken jokes and trying to catch a glimpse down the barwoman’s dress. Pints of homebrew were downed in seconds by some, and appreciated slowly by others. In the backroom a gambling game was always playing, providing a distraction from the gunfire outside. Poker and blackjack were dealt until dawn, all but one of the gamblers losing every cent of their wages.
I open my eyes and stare at the bar. Its oak surface is splintered into pieces from the once-unceasing gunfire. The shelves on the wall are now just shards of glass behind the counter, and anything worth stealing has been taken by looters.
