Eddie blinked, his brain whirring through the fog of cheap booze. "The ones in the sea, Richie?"
There was a quiet moment—a rarity in a house built on screams. Guest House Paradiso
Eddie looked at Richie, and for a second, the mask of the bickering clown slipped. He saw the hollowed-out terror in Richie’s eyes—the fear that the "Paradiso" was actually a purgatory they had built for themselves. Eddie blinked, his brain whirring through the fog
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. He saw the hollowed-out terror in Richie’s eyes—the
"Do you ever think about the fish, Eddie?" Richie asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
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.