STEVE BROWN

                  
My Room
     

My room is small; a cubicle almost. I don't know the specific measurements, but then again I don't really care. It's small, that sums it up. At twilight the fog rolls in, a battleship grey. The walls run grey. Unemotional, flat, a battleship grey. The fog turns into a gloomy black. There is no light as shadows dance in front of me. No light, yet the shadows dance. Mystic shadow, who are you? Why do you torment me? Begone! leave me to my misery.

I lay down on my bed and prepare. The walls surround me, totally encircling. I scream, straining my lungs and jaw as a tiny part of the pain, grief, IT, flies out from the deep caverns. Nothing is heard. Silence screams, the unheard yell of agony bounces and echoes off the walls. Nothing is heard. Words, like smoke from a fire, curl up blue, escaping beneath the door of my room. The smoke, ever thicker, ever more grey and blue, billows like giant cumulous clouds before the storm. The ceiling, the lid, presses down. It wants to crush me flat. Please! Raise the roof higher. But nothing is heard. A few listen, but nothing is heard. I look up at the ceiling, it is night black. My room mocks me. My room knows all about me.

The cool, dank air of my room is staring to take effect. With each breath my nose is pulverized. It is a drug, a psychedelic, dream-inducing drug. A razor, dirt orange from rust and Time, slices across the soft, vulnerable flesh. A river of red, crimson and flowing. Blood, dripping down the walls of my room, like dew dripping down from the windowsill in the morning.

Soft chanting now. An unintelligible murmur above the roof. I hear the despairing wail which trails off into an apologetic whimper. Weep, little child, weep. Let the tears stream down your innocent, tender cheeks. Stare, uncaring, lying friend. Stare vacantly at what you let slip through your fingers. All you do is close them to catch me. Time's up, my selfish only one. But, now there's a price to pay.

I see your face, swirling around the ceiling of my room. Slowly the skin peels off, the meat decays, rots, leaving only a gleaming white skull. Hollow eyes, hollow heart. It is ice cold in my room. I shiver and cry. Red rivulets of moisture slide down my slippery, frail form. The light shower becomes a torrent that gushes and does not ebb. With a frothy blue foam rising and falling like the crests of waves. My blanket is soaked wet. My throat is parched, my eyes soft. As usual I speak, addressing IT, but my words are dead.

I try to get out of bed, but I am immovable. My bed is my straight jacket. A pink tongue slithers around in my mouth like the cobra. I cannot control the slimy muscle. My tongue, now sickening purple-blue, hears a voice calling from deep inside me. Following the summons, the tongue inches down my throat like a crawling slug. My head is cut off from the rest of my body. IT has conquered me. I knew it would happen this way. In my room, in the dark, all alone.

I feel my room floating almost, but then settling down until still and steadfast. The walls shake, as if there was an earthquake. Light boughs of plants rain down on my roof. Oak and laurel tree branches, then flowers. Pretty flowers. Violets, irises, daffodils -- NO! No flowers for me.

Thud . . . thud . . . thud.

The roof of my room shudders with each dropping thud. The thud of my defeat. The noise stops. All is finished. All is quiet. Before I was nothing and now, after, I am nothing more.

The walls, the Earthen and muddy walls, are cool and comforting.

It is peaceful here, Underground.

My room is my tomb.

			Next Page
			Perimeter
 

 

   � 1997 by Steve Brown

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws