There is a Room

Reposted from my old pre-taking-this-stuff-seriously blog. Liked it, wanted to hang onto it.


There is a room.

About ten feet by eleven. The floor is dark, aged wood planks, once smooth and polished but now old, neglected, and splintering just enough to be dangerous to young, bare feet. It used to be cared for, but not any more.

The walls are wooden panels that used to be brown, then were covered in a dark green paint the color of rich forest moss. In places they are brown again, where the paint has begun to chip away, usually around the edges. On the south wall there is a door, closed. The door is plain and unpainted dark wood, with a tarnished brass knob and deadbolt that has been locked for as long as it can remember. One other door leads from the room, equally plain and unadorned, opening to a small coat closet containing no coats. A single wire hanger resides there, slowly rusting as the years pass. The closet floor is covered in dust, as is most everything else. There is a cardboard box there, open and empty save the decaying remains of a dead insect, now unidentifiable. The closet is otherwise empty, the door standing slightly ajar. The walls of the room are pockmarked with nails and the places nails used to be. A select few of them still bear their burdens through the years of neglect. One supports a small framed photograph of a young girl, seven or so, smiling to the camera and holding a plastic cup. She is not pretty, but to someone she was. She gazes out at the room, but its condition can't dampen her eternal happiness. Nearby, a diploma presents itself proudly to the empty space, announcing the owner as a graduate and a scholar, but he is not here. There is a cracked mirror as well, hanging from a thin wire. A pair of ticket stubs have been carefully placed in the edge of the frame, reminding the motes of dust in the air of a happier time. There is a single window, comprised of four panes of glass that have yellowed with age, completely obscuring the outside world. It has the benefit of neither curtains nor shutters, and the pale yellow light that manages to filter through it is the only illumination to penetrate the room. The walls of the room used to be cared for, but not any more.

There is a table in the room, below the window. A simple, narrow, rectangular wooden thing that was once a poor man's dining table, but has since been converted to a poorer man's makeshift writing desk. Its condition is comparable to that of the floor and the walls; aged and splintering slightly around the edges. The chair that accompanies it sits quiet and alone, unused. A dining chair, but mismatched from the table it now serves. The arms of the chair are slightly loose, a product of assisting its owner in getting up hundreds upon hundreds of times. Worn at the edge the seat by years of use, then years of disuse. The table and its chair used to be cared for, but not any more.

There is a wire wastebasket under the table. It is empty. Once it collected crumpled papers, torn envelopes, empty cans, banana peels, but now it is home only to a thin layer of dust and several dead flies that began on the sill of the window far above, and are now here. The basket was never particularly cared for, so its current state is nothing new.

There is a typewriter on the table. A manual monolith of metal and keys and coils and springs. The T, R, and E are worn completely away, and many others are only half visible. The ribbon is dry and cracked, and would crumble into dust if touched. There is a short, neat stack of yellowing paper to one side, all blank. The typewriter used to be loved, but not any more.

There is a room. The door has been closed for a very long time.