Dark and glossy, no room for despair; the pit of broken buildings sings a chime of dirt and grime. Where then is beauty? Is it here? Has it sunk into the underworld, left dead for worms? The asylum is old, half buried in time and mud. The apocalypse hasn’t been kind to her. No. The holocaust has been naughty to this ancient place.  Can you hear it now? –The howling wind, it’s the howling wind. It brings with it all manner of scents. Most are of rot and depression, maybe the old smells that once resided in this baneful mausoleum of emotions. But no; there’s another scent here. …Something sweet and untethered to the others. There. A ribbon painted crimson, waves in the wind. It’s so warm for this time of year, so moist; wet and glossy. The tiles of the floors glazed in an obscure sheen and the trails of petite footsteps leads the way. She was here again.  There is no doubt SHE was here. They said she perished so long ago, but like most things iconic, she sprung forth eternal.

There were rumors at first. They, in turn, turned into legend. A dark angel lives here. She’s been seen by many. Survivors from the blast, stragglers of a lost humanity; they all make a pilgrimage here, at least once in their lives. Page, for all she was worth, she made something of herself in life. This notoriety, this essence of the notorious, has leaked back into the world, the blazon earth of dilapidated cities and brimstone gallows.

A shaking tremor gingerly slips across the ground. Inside the asylum he turns, but no one is there. This time, a rusty wind chime falls to the floor, pushed by the dark hope of levity. Yes, she is here – here, somewhere.  The lone man walks across the cursed lodgings that once imprisoned the grim halls. There, he pulls a plush toy, a yellow bunny. It’s stained with the aura of Yeager, would she be eager to see Yeager? He does not know. Only when the moon takes its place high in the night sky, do his eyes see her. Coy and wicked, happily manic; she moves with the grace of a broken angel.

"I – I know you’re there." The man states quietly.

The sound of the wind hinders the echoes of her feline voice. A queer sense of femininity rivets across the greased halls. She’s nude, carrying a branch. Her body is inked in blood strings; pockets of decomposition quiver among her curvaceous body, but they are weak. There is little rot can do against a queen, these scars fade from her splendor like puddles stirred in an ocean.  The man looses his composure, he falters, craning downward on one knee. Page gently caresses his bleeding face.

"You’ve risked much to come here." Her voice echoed in a frisky demon’s giggle.

"That I did."

"Night and day, this arena of the bizarre is ripe with solace. Surely you know there are terrors here. Why did you come?"

"I came on the premise that you might be…lonely."

Again, that satanic giggle squeaked through the desolate corridors. Then, she stopped. A solitary tear dropped from her cold face.

"…And you know where I come from?"

"Yes." He said adamantly.

"You should be among the living, yet here you are."

"Yes." The man said with eyes intense.

Afterwards, no words came.  There was nothing…nothing but her smile.