Next of Kin

On glossy pages generally reserved for stars of stage and screen golden calves lounging casually on cushioned chaises, deities of decadence sunlight streamed in black and white through filthy, filmy windows as flies converged in the corners crawling over themselves in a frantic frenzy I could hear their communal buzzing echoing in my ears facing my own fears for my future forcing myself to read past the first paragraph Another photo followed, captured on the same sort of camera as the famous The bathroom of the apartment one level below black slime soaking through the ceiling, oozing down the walls like ectoplasm congealing on the cold tiles, dripping in the sink I could smell it in the ink the sour, sickly sweet, pungently putrid scent of a slaughterhouse The identity of the source of the gore from above gleaned from the contents of his wallet removed from his back pocket as he lay face down on the floor by the thickly gloved hand of a man in a moon suit He had been drawn to the city decades before searching for fame to see his name on marquees hoping his face would soon grace the covers of magazines like the one I was currently reading His neighbors knew nothing of him describing their fellow dweller within the walls of the run down slum as a silent ghost rarely seen but for a moment before vanishing behind his door as if he had condemned himself to solitary confinement for his failures In the end no next of kin could be found His ashes collected in a tin container sat on a shelf in the city morgue for a year before being dumped in a hole dug in the ground by a stranger with a spade in a corner of a neglected cemetery along with all the others who had died alone unclaimed, unmourned, unrenowned -