Ascention

I stood there, staring at this place, lodged in between two sidewalls and so expertly hidden in such an obvious place. The building itself was giraffe-like, tall, thin, with a heavy base. It was crooked towards the top and the sign read 'The Violet Crow', this tilted, crooked also, neon sign beated at odd times, and with each beat a soft buzz faintly through itself into the night. Clouds, spindly and weaving, held themselves between each displaced wall and pipe. Why was it so strange, this place, it carried an eerie sort of self-worth and self-depreciation, although strangely compelling all the same.

As frost pestered me relentlessly, I decided to duck in for a short spell, warm my throat so to speak. Inside the place was even more enigmatic than I had hoped. The entrance hall was a tiny cramped cupboard, with a rickety iron staircase, with what looked like leather padding on the top of each stair. Red leather, more scarlet actually, with worn dents and scars torn into them. As I ascended the stairs, clutching onto the banister for what I believed was dear life, I noticed etchings on the walls. Somebody had turned their hand to graffiti art. Most of them were people's names, with hearts or knives adorning them, a possible rememberence. But the most interesting by far, was a miniture crucifix, perfectly carved into the wall next to the centre stair. As the building seemed fairly old the walls too carried a noble age. Each wall seemed constructed out of solid steel, and when I placed my palm against them, I did not feel the cold, but a strange sense of warmth. The crucifix however, was an anomoly. The space around it was all knotted wood, with splinters forcing themselves out of the carving.

Slowly, I clambered to the top and arrived at a large empowering tin door. To reassure myself of my safety I dug my fingers into the sides and peered daringly over my shoulder to review the staircase. Suddenly I realised that I had been climbing for some time, and this staircase was spiralled. I had previously perceived it as forcefully vertical. It then came to my attention that the deathly silence I had tolerated on my way up, and faded into something more welcoming. Slow living room jazz was quietly pumping itself under the doorframe, and with each saxophone note a new light seemed to glow from around the door. Carefully, as to not touch any rust, I turned the knob. The door did not seem to respond and I then noticed the doorknob was not attached to any noticeable mechanism. I shuffled my shoulders to the side of the door and positioned my arms across the side of it, then with a great heave, I lunged to the side turning the door on its pivot. It gradually opened, creaking and shuddering with every new push.

Finally, as I staggered out of the doorframe and aquired some loose footing on the sticky floor, it was clear where I was. This was the place he had told me about. I was here at last.