The Room

The wall in front of me is my friend. The wall is white. All of the walls in this room are white. This wall though, this wall is special. It is the only one that speaks to me. It speaks in whispers; whispers that seem like muted screams. If you walk up to it and place your ear against it, you can hear the frantic heart beats. This wall is scared. This wall that screams, it is so scared. I want to help it. This poor wall it screams only for me. It wails at night, and screams in the day. Its screams, at times, are just incoherent words, as if it forgets exactly what it wants you to hear, and jumbles its thoughts. I know that feeling all too well. Its screams… Oh, the screams.

This chair is my enemy. The chair is cold and made of metal. I am forced to sit in this chair. I am chained. I am bound. This chair laughs. Oh, the laughs are so loud. It tries to taunt me. It tries to tell me I cannot break free. It tells me everyday how I am bound to it forever. It whispers all of the things I do not want to remember. It yells all of the things it hopes I never accomplish. It laughs even louder when I slip my hands free of the chains, only for more chains to snake around my wrists tighter than before. I demand for silence, it only laughs more. It laughs… Oh, the laughs.

The wall to my left is a whore. It is silent, but oh how it teases. I can feel how much it wants me to look at it, but I do not give it the pleasure it seeks. I do not give it a look, no, not even a passing glance. I can feel it pleading for a peek, but my eyes stay focused on my friend; the wall in front of me. It may scream to no end, but I prefer my friend. The left wall wants me to give in to all it can give, but I know nothing good can come from it. I know first would be a glance, then a look, then a stare, and then I will want to give in; I will want to beg for everything it can give. It teases, taunts, and the things it could give only make me weak. It wants to give with no work put into it… It teases… Oh, the teasing.

The wall to my right is so shy. I try to look at it, but I can feel the torture it feels at my gaze. I only give it a few glances a day, but the pain I feel from it in its silent torture is, at times, more than even I can bare. It is so miserable. It hates being forced to be seen. It hates being known. It hates being acknowledged. It hates itself. It hates me. I know this feeling. I know it all too well. I suppose it is compassion I now feel for it. It hates… Oh, the hate.

The wall behind me holds a door. The door is black. The door is so black. The wall holding the door is slowly rotting away. The clean white is slowly fading into a dark gray. That wall is haunting. That door is meant to stay closed. It tries to ruin you. It will always try to hinder you. It is keeping back all the things that make you sick to your stomach. It is a reminder. It is the things you do not want to be reminded of. It is everything you were. It’s the worst…

Oh the worst.

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