Across the room, Eddie sat slumped in a chair, a bottle of something caustic cradled in his lap. Eddie was the mirror Richie refused to look into. He was the physical manifestation of their shared failure, his body a map of scars and poorly set bones from years of Richie’s "accidental" outbursts. Yet, he stayed. He stayed because, in the warped logic of their codependency, being punched by Richie was better than being seen by no one at all.
The sun set over the cliffside at Guest House Paradiso, not with the warm glow of a postcard, but with the bruised purple of a fresh injury. Inside, Richie and Eddie moved through the halls like ghosts haunting their own lives—two men trapped in a cycle of spectacular violence and profound, unacknowledged loneliness. Guest House Paradiso
There was a quiet moment—a rarity in a house built on screams. Across the room, Eddie sat slumped in a
Eddie blinked, his brain whirring through the fog of cheap booze. "The ones in the sea, Richie?" Yet, he stayed
"No. The ones on the plates. They’re just like us. Caught, gutted, and served up to people who don't even know their names."
Richie let out a short, jagged laugh and immediately smashed a plate over Eddie’s head. The spell broke. The violence returned, familiar and comforting in its brutality. As Eddie collapsed to the floor and Richie began to scream about the cost of porcelain, the Guest House Paradiso stood silent against the crashing waves—a monument to two souls who would rather destroy each other than face the silence of being alone.
Inquire Now