The Room

The room was dark. Cold. It was impersonal; untouched by friendly voices, light, or mirth. It had been this way for years. Nothing adorned the walls save some white paint. Nothing decorated the dark wood floor to lessen the chill. The bed was saggy in the center as if it had once seen years of use and the coverlet was frayed around the edges. Now, nothing but the dust gathering in the corners seemed to inhabit the space.

A photograph in a black frame on a worn out nightstand lay face down, suggesting it had either tipped or been placed that way on purpose. The lamp with its shabby yellow-cloth shade, hung over the photo as if it disapproved of the frame’s decision to fail in its one simple task. The walls looked on placidly. Oh if only they could talk and share what had happened to this room. Why it been stripped of any personal touch.

Noise could be heard outside. It was part of a house with happy inhabitants. They ran up and down the halls but never once opened that brown wood door. Never once did they enter inside it to look round them or to clean its cracks.

The single window at the opposite side of the door, hung above the saggy bed, overlooking a garden; and further the ocean could be seen. A raging storm, just days ago, had created a crack in the drywall around the sill. But if anyone knew about it they did not care. For no carpenter appeared to aid in the restoration. No, now when a strong storm blew through, the window creaked and the crack grew in size.

Once the room had been a shade of white that did not appear so dismal. The walls had paintings and framed photographs of various plants on them. The bed had been younger and more springy. A knit kaleidoscopic rug had covered a great portion of the mahogany floor. The photograph had stood proudly on the simple nightstand and the lampshade was free of dust.

This had been when the room was in constant service. When the owners of the house had parties and allowed travelers to stay in the room. Then, there had been no crack in the sill and the room felt loved and touched with adventure. But times had changed.

No longer was hosting travelers considered safe or even wanted. The couple who had loved the room had long gone. The house had passed into anther's possession. That person cleared everything out of the room except the photo which they had lay face down in its present condition. As the dust began to build, the house found a new owner and another after that. And none had ever done anything with the room except to poke their heads in, with the stuffy man in the suit, when they were purchasing the place.

In fairness the room was tucked away. It was on the top floor at the end of a hall, cramped in where one side was actually under the eaves. As a result that side of the room had a low wall which slopped upward as it outlined the roof’s shape. It was an easy space to miss, forgettable. In fact it had been forgotten. An occasional child could be heard outside its creaky door inquiring about what lay within, but they were always called off the hunt and would go away again without ever entering through the portal.

Wind rustled in the trees outside the window. The breeze filtered in through the crack bringing a small and momentary freshness to the room. The house creaked and the room shifted imperceptibly with it.

Once, a vagrant had slept in this room. The owners couldn’t stand the idea that he was outside with a massive storm on its way. The bed contracted bed bugs and the rug had to be fumigated but the owners had felt a massive sense of relief in their consciences, and the vagrant had felt compassion for the first time in years.

He returned to the room several years later as a respectable gentleman and stayed the night for old times sake. As he stood in the little guest room overlooking the garden and the ocean, the owners had stood in the doorway crying tears of joy at hearing his tale. He’d been so moved by their generosity that he’d managed to turn his whole life around. The walls of that room had never glowed so brightly since.

The Owners were dead now. Long gone. Their stories and their guests locked within the walls of that room. The springs of that ancient bed telling the tale of a once loved once bright and chipper household.

The door to the room creaked open. The room waited, the air from the crack in the window sucked out by the variation in air pressure. A woman poked her head inside. She was new. The man in the suit was with her.

“See just a room under the eaves.” his voice was saying. The door closed as the woman with yellow curls nodded her head.

“Cute.”

The room settled back into the darkening gloom unchanged. Another owner. Days passed and the usual noise of those moving out and those moving in took over. The ratty sheer curtain that hung over the broken window shifted in the breeze of the oceanic air.

Once a sailor had rented this room from the owners. His ship had sunk off the harbor mouth and he had to wait for his company to send him a new ship to ride on. He was foreign and barely spoke any of the language, but his voice was clear and clean like that oceanic breeze. He sang several sea shanties and love songs from the window of that room. The room had felt alive then and foreign.

Once, before the Owners had died and the shifting ownership had moved in, a young girl with bright curls had stayed in the room for weeks. It was supposed that she would be the permanent occupant. She brought in a photograph of herself with the Owners and placed it on the nightstand. But she became deathly ill. She threw up all over the kaleidoscope rug and shortly afterwards she was removed from the room altogether. As was the kaleidoscope rug. But it returned in good health three days later.

Days rose and fell. The moon shone on the room in eerie cold lights. Once, on a night when that same eerie glow had been shining, a man and a woman flew into the room in a passion. They were there the remainder of the night but they did not sleep. The next day when they left, the room looked as though a hurricane had passed through it. The pictures were skewed on the wall and the coverlet had been tossed in a heap. The photograph was under the bed. The room had never known such excitement.

But now it was raining and the rain was filtering in through the crack. A small damp puddle was beginning to form on the hardwood floor. The wind sighed through the room as if it were as melancholy as the sad little space.

Voices could be heard outside the door. Traveling closer. Closer. Closer. The door creaked open.

“We’ll need to get oil for that door.” A man in coveralls says. His mustache is twitching as he sneezes in the room. Dust flies up and then settles. He carries with him crack filler and the necessary accoutrements to fix the problem.

The blond woman follows him. She nods, her curls bouncing. She walks to the nightstand and looks down at the photograph frame that is overturned. She picks it up to look at the photo.

“I once lived here.” she murmurs. Her fingers glide over the faces in the picture.

The man in coveralls grunts as he begins to work. “Is that right?”

“Yes. This was my Aunt and Uncles house.” She places the photo upright and absently begins to dust with her fingers. Shooing the dirt to the floor off the simple round wood base of the lamp.

“What happened?” The man dries the crack and the floor with a dirty work towel.

“I became very ill and had to be sent to hospital. I stayed there for most of my life and they unfortunately passed away before I was free of the place.”

The man tips his dirty cap back on his head revealing more of his forehead. “This is a bad crack.”

The girl turns to look. Her adolescent face is reflected in the photograph on the stand. “This was my room once. It looks like no-one has used it since my Aunt and Uncle passed. Do the best you can. I intend to bring this room back to life.” She left the room quietly and the man got to work.

Once done he stood and admired his handiwork before taking a turn round the room. “A bit of paint and a new bed this room might be alright.” he left.

The room felt warmer somehow. The glow of the afternoon sun filtered in through the ratty curtain and fell upon the photograph.