“…The
rocking of his house/ had me holding on/ but I knew that I was safe/ from there
on out/ The waves that hit his face/ marked the past/ and the furrows on his
skin/ Oh how time goes fast…/ But we are all far from home, but we are so
happy/ Far from home, all alone, but we are so happy.”
But when?
I have become a crumpled mess, like rags
thrown in the middle of the locked room. Ear buds streaming the lyrics of From Finner by Of Monster and Men from
my iPod had tears strolling down my face. There was a truth paralleled in my
life within those lyrics, yet half of the song is so far from anything I can
even begin to attain at this time: happiness. I am not happy.
Looking back on my life I realize how
quickly time has passed, numbness settling within my core as I realize a
glaring truth: I am all alone. This ‘house’
has been rocked; Hard. I feel as if I am clinging onto my delicate mental and
emotional state by my finger nails. I feel marred by the decisions I have made,
my battle scars visible to all who are willing to see them. One only needs to
look and I freely bear my mistakes…or so I fear.
I have become self-deprecating,
embarrassment and confusion taking up residence. I am not sure how much time
has passed since entering this room, with me staring at the bookshelf wall. How
could I have painted this exact replica of a wall in a room I have never set
foot in? Or is Stella right and I have been here before?
And how?
With whom?
I begin to despise the state I have
fallen into, disgusted that I have wasted so much time feeling sorry for
myself. I rip the ear buds out, refusing to give melancholy anymore power over
me. Songs can be wonderful to heal a broken heart or scarred soul, but reveling
in the pain too long becomes debilitating.
I stand, slowly coming to my feet, eyes
never wavering from the book shelves. One foot in front of the other, I walk
towards them. Time is suspended. I take in the various knickknacks dressing the
boards within their frames. Vases, candles, boxes, baskets, photos…
I run my fingers over the items lightly,
disturbing the layers of dust. Somehow my finger catches on the corner of a
picture frame. As I ripped my hand away, the frame crashed to the floor,
busting the backing separate from the glass. Bending over, I picked the pieces
up. Something fluttered to the floor, though I ignore it because the picture steals
my breath. There are two women sitting on a bench. The photo was taken in black
and white. The women dressed in clothing from the sixties. There was an uncanny
resemblance in the photo: I looked like the younger woman on the bench. But
that’s impossible…I was not even born yet.
I put the picture frame back together,
having forgotten what had fallen to the floor. Shaken, I replace it on the
shelf and continue to take in the multitude of decorations gracing the shelves.
I came to the section with books. There was one in particular that caught my
attention. It was thick and covered in dark brown leather. As I placed my hand
on the worn binding – clearly a favorite – to pull the book out for a closer
look, a huge gust of wind nearly knocked me over as the door slammed shut,
covering the room in darkness…
Suddenly the room was basked in candle
light, the creaking of a rocking chair the only rhythm within the room. The
front window was open, the sheer white curtains whipping wildly in the wind.
How did the window open? Where did the flames of the candles come from? Who
shut the door?
Am I that out of it that I have no
recollection of doing these things?
BANG!
BANG! BANG!
The splintering of wood under the
vehement banging on the cabin door sent a shock of fear down my spine. Whoever
was here the first night was back!
What do I do? I remembered I had left my
phone downstairs. When would I learn? I was unable to bring myself to walk down
the stairs to retrieve it. I slowly slid to my knees and crawled toward the
window afraid of picking up my feet, fearing the creaking wood planks would make
my presence known to whomever was outside. I pulled myself up over the sill
just enough to see the driveway. There was nothing there. Did the person intent
on freaking me out walk here? But from where did he come?
I held my breath, very much aware of the
intensity of my internal organs working overtime. There was a brief flash of
light from under the porch prior to a shadow running from the porch around the
side of the house. Where was the person going?
As quickly as the wind had picked up, it
died down. The squeak of the rocker ceased. My heart quieted, though my mind
raced. I was cemented to the floor, back against the wall with the window above
my head. The moon shone through the window, illuminating the space. The book I
was about to pick up appeared to glow, as if beckoning me to pick it up and see
its contents. But I could not move. Images of the lavender room trickled to the
forefront of my mind. Confusion swirled, effortlessly muddling my thoughts and
vision.
~ ~ ~
Neon pink is all I saw. My body stiff,
hardness beneath me.
I slowly opened my eyes. The sun rays
assaulting my pupils forced me to shut them. I groaned; my body angry with me.
I felt like the Tin Man from The Wizard
of Oz, wishing for a can of oil for my joints. I could almost hear them
creak in agony as I worked myself into a seated position. I look about my surrounds,
surprised to find I fell asleep in the locked room. I should probably think of a
new name for it, considering it is clearly no longer locked.
I make my way to my feet stretching
before I reach a full standing position. A yawn escapes. Rubbing the back of my
neck, I become determined for some of my favorite liquid gold: coffee. I
stumble down the steps, barely aware of the events from last night. My head is
too foggy for such thoughts.
The sound of the trickling coffee as it
percolates is music to my ears. The aroma of the Arabica coffee grounds is a
welcome memory. Bliss fills me up in anticipation of the wonderful experience
of drinking coffee as I prepare my mug. Coffee, coffee, coffee…I love coffee. I
smile as the warm liquid slides down my throat, hitting my stomach with the
makings of coming home. The entire experience of drinking coffee is soothing
and calming, and I thank God for the wonderful beans.
Somehow a whiff of my stellar self is
able to make an appearance despite the brewed coffee scent filling the room. I
must shower. My muscles breathe a sigh of relief as the hot steam and steady
stream of water massages them. My head clears. Visions of last night an affront
to my relaxed state.
Concern wraps itself around my
recollection. I dress quickly upon exiting the shower, shorts and a tee-shirt.
Fear had left long ago, replaced by determination. I stepped out the front door
to the porch, turning to examine the door. I remembered hearing the splintering
of wood. It sounded as if whoever was banging was hell bent on breaking the
door down. But if that was the case, why did they leave before they were
successful? And what could they want? Was it something within the cabin itself?
Or was it something to do with me?
I need answers, not more questions.
As I inspected the door, I found no
signs of damage. Actually, the more I investigated, the more I became uncertain
as to what I heard last night. The door looked to be in pristine shape.
Understanding escapes me.
My next thought: check around the cabin
in the direction the shadow ran. I made my way north, going around the exterior
of the bedroom on the first floor. I noticed no footprints, but saw a slight
break in the foliage along the tree line of the woods. Uncertainty flooded my
thoughts at what I found. Should I be excited, or should I be worried?
There was a trail that led into the
woods that did not appear to have been used in quite some time…Almost as if it
had been forgotten.
Has Ivy been in the locked room before? Who is out to get her?
Think you know? Have any ideas? Share your thoughts!!!
Wow!!! loving this :)
ReplyDelete