Watts

The room was lightly decorated in shades of white and gray, and small accents of gold and silver. There were sparse furnishings or decor. This place didn’t have a name, other than “the room.” At one point, it was empty. Nothing was in it. When at last it was decorated, which was not for many years, this room somehow decided it would change itself depending on whoever was staying in it. No room it decided to be was the same room twice, unless it was the same person staying in it. The room was the only unique thing about the house that it was in. For me, it was gold and silver and white and grey. But the weird thing is, sometimes the room would change while I was in it. Only the colors of the walls, but it still weirded me out pretty good. It would change colors when I would talk to myself about certain things. Like when I talked to myself about how disrespectful my friend had been to me over nothing, it turned a light red color. And when I talked to myself about how excited I was to be able to go on this field trip, it turned light purple.

”... anyways, I gotta go shower. Talk to you soon Sis.” I sent the text, and then got in the shower.

* * *

I folded the paper and shoved it into the envelope along with the postcard with a picture of the city I was visiting. I hoped the letter and the postcard made it safely to my mom and dad. “I miss my family,” I said to the room. It turned light pink in response. I’d somewhat figured out what each color meant. It was like having a one sided conversation, but with the other person still responding. I don't really know how to explain it. The room understood what I was talking about. Each color of the room signified a different emotion. Red was anger. Purple was anticipation. Pink was sympathy. Each color had a meaning. It was kind of comforting. Somehow. When I got out of the shower and was finished writing the address on the envelope, I sent the letter down the chute, where they would pick it up from a basket of outgoing mail, and then mail it to the address on the envelope.

I always talked about this room in my letters. At first, I had just called it the “Room on Pluss Street,” but then eventually, I decided to give it a name. I felt that the presence in the room, or the overall atmosphere of the room, was of the male gender. So I started calling him Watts. I always greeted Watts when I got home from touring, and always said goodbye to him when I left. It was like having a best friend to watch over me whenever I was at home. I call him home, even though he’s just a room I’m staying in for the duration of my vacation. He enjoyed having been assigned a name. I understood that he felt it gave him purpose, after all, who would like to have no name? No one, I’d think. 

How did I figure out what to name a room, you might ask? I went through a list of names until his dull gray color turned into a nice, soft, lime green color, which I’d found out meant ‘happy.’ He’d chosen the name Watts, which I respected and decided it fit him anyways. I paid a lot of money to be able to stay here, in this special room, for it was not often you’d find a room that could change itself!

 “Watts, I have to talk to you,” I told him one day. He turned light orange, which meant he was showing interest. “It’s not really something very good,” I continued. His color went from a light orange to a light blue. Basically saying ‘uh-oh.’ I looked around his walls, and at the lovely decor he had fabricated just for me. “I’m leaving in two days, to go back home. I have to leave. It’s very expensive to stay with you. I wish I could afford you, really I do. But… but I can’t. It’s almost $600 a night to stay here, and I’m going broke. I - I’m sorry Watts.” I looked around the room as he processed what I said. Slowly, his color turned to dark grey, and he remained that way the rest of the night. He didn’t even acknowledge me when I said good night to him. When I woke, the walls were white. The most passive and neutral shade there is. He did not acknowledge me when I said good morning, or when I said goodbye to him before going touring again.

He was angry and sad with me, I could see it. I could feel it. The atmosphere of the room was drab, and not necessarily uninviting, but not welcoming either. My eyes teared up when I closed the door to go touring. I had no idea how long this passive-aggressiveness would last. I just hoped he would be okay enough to say goodbye to me before I left for good. “I’m sorry Watts,” I whispered to myself. I repositioned my purse on my shoulder, straightened up, pushed away the bad feelings, and went to the taxi I had called.

I opened my purse, and pulled out the little statue of me that Watts had fabricated for me the other day. I looked at it for a long time, spacing out on it. I was so lost in my head, I didn’t realize the taxi driver was talking to me until he loudly cleared his throat. My head snapped up. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I got lost in thought.” He looked hard at me. I threw a twenty and a ten over the passenger seat, and said thank you before getting out. “Keep the change,” I said, then I shut the door before he could say anything to me.

Before I could do anything, I looked to my right and saw the truck. A semi, going many more miles an hour than he should have been going. “Oh Watts,” I murmured. The last thing I remembered saying before the truck collided with my body. To this day, Watts and I are partners. I stay as a spirit in his room. It’s much different now that I am dead though. I can hear him talk to me. We can have real conversations now. And, to many people’s confusion, I can still communicate with my family. Now that we are joined, Watts can use my soul to put words on his walls, letting us both effectively communicate with live people. I’m fine with this life. I love Watts, and he loves me. We’re inseparable. And, sometimes, I like to mess with people by moving their stuff. It’s great.