The Green Room

The Green Room

“This room is unfamiliar. I don't know how I got here.” Mark mumbles to himself for the thousandth time as he looks around

The room is sparsely furnished with a bed and a chair. The window is high up on the wall. The walls are painted a shade of green that is believed to soothe the soul but instead demands that every thought and emotion be surrendered. All inclinations to rebel and question the status quo, any stray thought of little green men, holy or unholy ghosts, and all memories of love and affection are squelched. It is as if he watches a movie of his own life. Grainy, in black and white with many haphazard splices and distorted dubbing.

A previous occupant must have carved these words into the wall.

Don’t swallow the blue pills.

Underneath is a shallower scribble, or green. This small epitaph lives in the corner and is hidden when the door stands open.

For a while, Mark is content to watch himself in that grainy movie. He opens his eyes when the lights come on, lines up to swallow pills and stares at substances that vaguely resemble food. When the lights are doused, he lies back and closes his eyes.

Until the meaning of the scratches on the wall sinks in. Then he learns to cheek the pills. He'll spit them in his hand and later, when he's unobserved, he'll pry the capsule apart, sprinkle the powder on the floor or wash it down the drain and swallow the empty gelcap. Because he can't show that his thoughts are clearer, he shuffles his steps, flattens his expression, lets drool drip from the side of his mouth while swallowing his memories, tolerating reality, and doubting the future.

To hide this lucidity, he spends more time in his room where he sits on the bed and stares endlessly ahead. Slowly an image forms on the wall. Each day it becomes a little more distinct. Shadows and light, vague outlines, and shapes emerge. First a horizon appears, followed by hills and meadows with trees. Clouds perch in the sky. Then the trees sway in a breeze, the water in a pond ripples, the clouds change shapes as they drift across the sky. Birds swoop and sing, cattle graze and low. Trains pass regularly. Cars and trucks honk while navigating the roads.

People walk on the sidewalks and greet each other. One admires a baby in a pram. Another goes into a store. Couples sit on a sidewalk terrace, drinking coffee and lemonade. Kids play ball, hide-and-seek, and jump rope. Lovers sit on benches, smooching, and cuddling.

Night follows day with the moon, stars and streetlights that anchor the scene. Over there are the lights of an evening ball game, here the flickers from a drive-in. The occasional dog wanders by and meets another with its human following on a leash. Lights turn off, houses go dark. The midnight bus leaves town.

 And all this time when he sits and watches the picture on the wall, she watches him.

“Hi.” She smiles and lifts one hand in a hesitant greeting.

“Hi.” He whispers. How long has it been since he used his voice? He swallows. “Are you real?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want to join you.”

“But you have already. See?”

The boy defending the goal waves at him, the one on third base tips his cap, another one steps off his scooter and grins. They are all him. The boy he used to be waves before he dives into the back of a car, jostling his brother, father behind the wheel, mother bringing up the rear with a picnic basket.

The couple on the bench turn and look at him. A younger, healthier Mark, with his arm around her shoulders. They smile and look at each other again. The young mother pushing the pram is joined by Mark. They look up and smile at him. One of the couples on the terrace lift their coffee cup at him.

“How?” he asks. “Why?”

“Isn’t this movie better than the other one?”

Marked nods and watches. “Which is real? Here or there?”

“They are both real.”

He looks around the green room and back at the wall. “How did I get here?”

“Don’t you remember?”

He shakes his head, though he hears a scream in the back of his mind, rubs his skin, picks at a scar.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“What name do you remember?”

He closes his eyes and remembers Darla. Vibrant red hair, blazing green eyes, and hundreds of freckles across her nose. He hears her laughter and sweet whispers. He remembers the weight of her in his arms, the taste of her lips. He remembers all that and more.

When he looks back at the wall Darla smiles at him, sits on the bench with him, pushes the stroller, enjoys a coffee on the terrace, cheers him on from the sidelines of ball games.

“Why am I here? Why am I not home?”

“Only you can tell.” Darla answers. “Only you can remember.”

“Remember what?”

Her smile fades. A tear leaks from her eyes, her lips tremble.

“I don’t know. You haven’t told anyone.”

At night he stares at the wall, watching the stars and the moon make their way across. The homes turn off their lights, except for one attic light. In that attic room a young man packs a duffel bag, leaves the house, and rides the midnight bus out of town. The young man steps off the bus and enters an army base. He follows orders.

When morning comes Mark is under his bed, lost in his memories. He doesn’t hear what's said and screams at the lightest touch. He fights invisible restraints. Cowers from remembered threats and horrors. Swipes at blood and cradles injuries only he can see.

Days later, Mark sits up and looks at the soulless green walls. “This room is unfamiliar. How did I get here?”