Empty rooms, warm eyes

It wasn’t always a bad room. With the only West facing windows in our house, it bore witness to the brilliant, bleeding skies every evening. It really was a pity that it had nothing else going for it. We’d been warned that it didn’t have great ventilation, but it was only one room. One room in the house that brought that wonderful soft smile to her face. It wouldn’t be an issue, I remember thinking. It could be a guest room. It’s not like we’d have that many guests anyway. So, we looked out the window, blinded by the dazzling beauty of the sunset, and decided to buy the house.  

The room was in the far corner of the second floor hallway. It didn’t see a lot of the things that went on in the house. It missed important things like the howling laughter that came with every game night. They were held every Friday, because she was adamant we do something with our friends every so often. I’d much rather spend them alone with her, but I never voiced my thoughts, not when she positively glowed at their praise. Perhaps, in the beginning she was also a little excited to present the new house, preening at every compliment. It was fair, I thought. She’d been the one to painstakingly pick out every colour, every texture and decoration that adorned the walls of our house. I’d have liked to help, but our styles didn’t match, she’d say. However, never let it be said that she didn’t compromise. I got to do our bedroom. And though she’ll never say it, I know she hates the green dolphin wallpaper I picked. So, while the house remained a shrine to her ideas, something she could show to everyone, our bedroom remained something special, the place outside the curious gaze of others, where mine finally existed. 

The guest room never managed to catch the glimpses of the softer moments either. Not the gentle caresses, or the smell of pancakes in the morning. Not the terrible jazz music she sometimes played or the small dances in the living room that eventually accompanied it. Not even the comforting embraces or apology ice cream buckets that followed the arguments with raised voices and acidic tears. It was a shame that it couldn’t house the framed photos that the rest of the house had plenty of, or all the little souvenirs she insisted we bought every time we travelled outside the city. It had become a separate thing, an entity of its own, forgotten, flecked with dust and the dull scent of old wood that coated all things discarded. We never really fixed that ventilation issue.

While impervious to our most cherished times, the guest room did manage to capture one moment in our lives. The worst one it could have, and it clung to the memory with a vengeance. 

It was a fool’s vice, committed in the dark of the night, and under the hazy influence of inebriation, that transformed mild desire to a grievous error. I’d brought her to the house, stumbling, all her features accentuated by my own intoxicated mind. Yet, it wasn’t the nameless woman I remembered that night, but the one I’d loved for so long. They looked impeccably different but moved so similarly that my heart yearned to touch her. Somewhere, in some corner of my mind I must have had some rationality left, for I took her to the guest room. Maybe it was the idea of doing it on our own bed, which seemed more repulsive than the act itself. Or maybe I just hadn’t wanted her to see that stupid wallpaper.

That night, after, she’d complained about the stifling room, but I hadn’t paid her any mind. 

Now, as I sat on the stiff bed in the guest room, I saw the room for the first time as something ugly and dark. The room felt thick and stuffy, like clogged airways inhaling noxious gas. Rancid smells permeated the room, and any sort of air fresheners only served to make the atmosphere more stifling. The West facing window was no longer the spectacle it used to be, for now it just stared at the bare back of a huge building, barely able to see the sunlight at all. Even with the abundance of space in the room the walls felt like they were constricting, accomplices to the glass chains which kept me tethered to the house. Chains which were easy enough to break out of but those which I knew would cause irreparable damage if I did. I couldn’t leave, not while she slept in our bedroom, alone, probably overflowing with the loathing she felt for her husband. Or perhaps it was more of a bitter resentment. She’d never seemed capable of hatred, choosing to forgive instead. Perhaps we could move past this, and forget it ever happened. Surely, a moment of weakness couldn’t possibly be enough to upend years of love and trust? I lay down on the prickly mattress, seeking solace in the hopes that my transgressions could remain locked up in this tiny space, and be dismissed- like things always had been in the room. 

I knocked on our door that night, prepared to delve into my side of the story- I never got the chance. The moment the door opened I noticed the torn wallpaper. She’d ripped it out. But that was understandable, she was hurt. What really stopped me in my tracks was a big half-packed suitcase lying innocuously on the center of the wooden floor. The knowledge that she didn’t intend on staying here and fixing things hit me like a ton of bricks. It reached into my throat and closed a fist around any words I may have been trying to form. She shot me a withered look when seconds ticked by and I was still unable to grasp the words in my head, and shut the door. 

I couldn’t bring myself to return to the guest room. It felt wrong, like vengeful retribution for what I’d done. But even as I took defeated steps towards the couch, the foul odour from the room seemed to follow me. Seeping through the doors, spreading everywhere in the house. I remember wondering, if it was simply following me.