The Rex Hotel is Filled with Ghosts

In every room, the secrets of men have leeched into the plaster on the walls and, no matter how many times they repaint, it never stops the leakage. It will be here until they tear the place down. Even then, some poor bastard will take the used bricks to build a house at the edge of a paddy field somewhere, and wonder why he has nightmares.

The ceiling fans have drawn years of sweat up into the air, atomizing terror, regret, disgust, love, guilt, hatred, lust, despair. Every emotion but joy. But then, I didn't come here for joy, did I?

I came to lie on this bed where whores have worked hard, where violence has been wrought, where nightmares have been born and died, where souls have been dissected. I came to the party a quarter of a century too late and only the faint scent of spilled scotch remains. And, of course, the ghosts.

There is nothing about me that deserves crucifixion, you understand. So I can't write you about that. I have never been a big enough sinner, or a big enough saint. I can only write of the crucifixions of others. Of the young officer who shot his superior in the head while out on patrol because he had seen enough death. Of the man at the supply depot who watched his leg disappear, day-by-day, not from anything with a satisfying name, but because here nature eats everything and took a particular liking to him. Of the working girl from the delta who spoke no English and did not cry out when someone tore into her ass, because she hoped against hope that he would marry her afterwards.

There are many martyrs, but I am not one of them. I'm just a chronicler and, for the most part, the phantoms keep me company enough. Still, it would be nice to have you here, to lie beside me and listen to the ghosts, to tell me you can hear them too.