The Room Mollie Menees
sit in this room for hours. Not because I want to, but I have to. Well, maybe part of me wants to. But that part I don’t like. At times, I feel like I am just watching the paint dry, but there’s no paint there. There hasn’t been in years. The room consists of the cracking faded blue, peeling to expose the dark cement that holds me in. There’s a musty mirror on the wall with smudges from my sleeve trying to clean it. There’s the wooden floor, softened from the years of use and blackened by unclean feet. A bed sits in the corner with a pale blue sheet and comforter neatly stretched across and tucked under. There are hinges on the wall, but no door to enter or to leave from. Over in the corner of the room sits a chair, pale yellow with no arms and rusting legs. It’s nailed to the floor facing towards a tiny window that looks out unto the sea. The window is latched, and it would take the strength of ten men to open it. The wall and floor by the chair are scratched and picked at, creating splinters in the floor and marks on the wall. I’m not supposed to go over there. Yet I do. Sometimes I sneak over to the chair; over the splinters and twisted nails which I tower above, and sit down to look out the window. The sight amazes me every time. The sea is expansive, changing colors every time I take a peek at it. Sometimes it’s so light that you can see the seashells being illuminated by the sun casting down. Today though, it’s a dark blue with white crests forming off in the distance. The sky overhead is gray, a color I’m used to in this dull room. At the start lies a small beach, with sand so light that the lack of sunshine can’t even dim it. Rocks glitter the landscape as turtles rest. Birds fly down and grab at fish, taking them from their families and eating them whole; their blood, bones, and bodies. I wish I was out there. Sometimes I try and pull at the latch to open the window, but it never seems to budge. One time I worked on it so much that my fingers started to bleed. I just smeared the blood on the wall and kept on pulling until I heard them coming. It’s been a while since then. I sit up on the chair and begin to pull at the latch. The rust flakes off onto my fingers as I pull, yet nothing seems to move. I move so I’m sitting on my knees and begin to pull hander, pressing my left hand against the wall and pulling with my right. Nothing. I sit back down against the chair; put both hands on the latches and my feet on the wall and pull with all my strength. I feel my skin begin to tug. I stop.
Volume 12 Issue 1--Fall 2010