Eye of the Storm

You run up the path and through the wooden door; climb up the stairs, bolt down the hall; slam the door behind you and click the lock. But now, not even inside the house, not even inside of the tiny room with the lock on the door, is there a place to escape the dangers that lurk in the shadows.

The room contradicts itself and the household that surrounds it; it challenges the people that live within it, and the people who pass by. It is supposed to be a place of comfort, a safe house, somewhere to escape when the stresses of the world were too much.

The occupant of the room, though in nature an aspirant organizer, is nothing of the sort and has obsessive qualities pertaining to their nature: empty water bottles lounge on shelves, desks, and carpet; alphabetized books and CDs are lined neatly along a book shelf, then stacked upon on another and placed randomly around the room; wires, cords, and plugs, like snakes, are coiled dangerously in corners; dust covers every visible surface; books upon books fill shelves and continue onto the floors.

All across the floor, coins have been scattered. Bags, shoes, binders, and papers have been tossed out of the way, as though a hurricane has ripped through the room, throwing everything out of its line of sight.

The books that have been placed upon the shelves are from a simpler time, when reading was a pleasure, and music wasn’t a vice. Now, the books are covered in dust and cobwebs and the music plays into the night to block the sporadic yelling from the other areas of the house. It cuts through, though, and the music dismisses as the anger and frustration sends the house into frenzy; the kind of fear that sends chills down your spine and causes bumps to rise on your arms.

All doors are shut and locked; no one makes a sound. The only noise comes from the slamming of wood against wood, the pounding of rubber against carpet, up and down, up and down. Screaming, like a savage, the door is slammed once more and all is quiet. Slowly, the house regains consciousness. Music begins to play, doors unlock: everything is calm in the eye of the storm.

Why the doors are kept locked is primarily for one’s privacy. Knocking is never over-looked under this roof; each person’s privacy is respected. With this in mind, there is also an issue of trust: not one person in this house trusts another to keep out of their business.

Now, this room, this supposed sanctuary, is merely a death trap for the uncoordinated. One could trip over wires, or step on sewing needles that have fallen from careless fingers. And because of the size of the room and the objects that absorb it, there is an even higher risk or tripping over something small and out of sight. The bed fills up half of the room, and with the desk, computer, two bookshelves, and nightstand, there is only a small path to walk through before reaching all of them: five steps north, three steps east.

The window that looks out to the large Willow in the front of the house invites spiders, moths, and other creatures of the sort, seducing them to hide out in the darkest corners of the room; the scent of freshly cut grass and the clean smell of newly fallen rain fill the extent; you can hear it drizzle against the pane.

The two lamps that inhabit the back corner of the room make only the slightest difference to the darkness that fills it. Noises can be heard from every part of the house: phones ringing, music singing, people talking, dogs barking. Even I would have trouble sleeping in this lively house. For the music never stops singing, the phones never stop ringing, the people never cease their talking, and the dogs never quit their barking. So when peace has finally come, the occupant of this hole in the wall, this supposed haven, is overjoyed with happiness and relief.

When all is calm, and laughter reverberates off of walls and through closed doors, when the smell of baking cookies drifts through open vents, when the fiery sun hits your back from between curtains of clouds, when honey-sweetened tea runs down the back of your throat, warming your soul, and when the smiles of loved ones ease your heart’s ache and your mind’s pain, that is when this house becomes a home.

-Kaitlyn