A Room's Personality

The visibility of my beige carpet; the newly washed and dried sheets tucked tightly around me; the desk covered with an array of medicines; the line of emptied Ginger Ale cans, surrounded and suffocated me. Sitting in my bed, I stared at the sickly yellow walls, attempting to swallow two Nyquil’s and some sugarless herbal tea. The uncomfortably sterilized atmosphere overwhelmed my standard mixture of perfumes scents, like a blanket. As my mother hurried into my room to gather the dirty dishes, I imagined her with a surgical mask, covering her forced smile. She was impatiently waiting for me to return to school. Even if I had left my bed, there would a permanent imprint in my mattress, where I had sat for hours, waiting for the nausea and sickness to pass. My family’s Netflix account was put to good use, as I searched the instant queue and reluctantly settled for low-budget romantic comedies and unknown horror films on my white MacBook. Along with the hollow Ginger Ale cans, sat a row of varying mugs, with an assortment of used tea bags in each one. If I brought the mugs to my congested nose, I could almost smell the tropical mango, refreshing blueberry, sweet vanilla scents of my favorite teas. The usual flurry of turquoise fins swam in slow motion, as my Betta fish, Bruce, copied my lazy, downcast attitude. He hid in his life-like fish castle, when I hobbled to his tank, my legs, still asleep

Throughout the week I wore the same bright fuscia bathrobe, it’s comfort and warmth attempted to suppress the constant reminder of hospital gowns. Underneath my seizure-inducing bathrobe, I wore a 2004 Nutcracker shirt that was now two sizes too small and my company’s logo, worn off. With this fashion must-have, I had paired several different pajama bottoms, most of which were too short and too patterned for my queasy brain to handle. I did not pay attention to my appearance, which was obvious, due to my messy bun and un-painted face. If I had removed my bright orange hair tie, my curly mane might have turned people to stone. As for the make-up, I would have felt idiotic, painting on my usual bronzer, thick, black eyeliner, false eyelashes, and red lipstick, only converse with my parents. My slippers sat side-by-side at the bottom of my bed, the once fluffy, faux fur, matted from over-use, the label barely readable, even with glasses. My fingers, naked, without the adornment of jewels or twisted metals. In addition to my ring-less fingers, I observed, were ten nails that did not have a dot of nail polish on them. I could not even paint my nails, due to the overwhelming fumes, which was a typical ritual for me; therefore I had become a dull person, I concluded. As I shifted in my sunken mattress, I felt something poke my leg. Then I reached under my limp covers and blindly searched for the meddlesome object, only to find an orange cold and flu pill. I guess that makes me the Princess and the Pill.

As I slumped against my obnoxiously, bright yellow pillow, I thought of the better days when I was energetic and healthy, not contagious and deprived of human interaction. I missed the mystery of my carpet color. I missed cups of various, unfinished beverages scattered around my room, waiting, like Easter eggs, to be found, but not enjoyed. I missed the pathway, through my clothing, leading in different directions in my small, cluttered room. My pale and soft and euphoric-inducing yellow walls create content feelings. The sickly smell of “ocean’s spray” air freshener was no match to my typical mixture of perfumes, each advertising a different brand. Even though, I fed and cleaned his tank every once in awhile, Bruce displayed an ongoing hatred of me, and I missed these strong emotions. My hurried search for homework and binders before school, only made the mornings more exciting, with only minutes to spare, I could feel like any superhero, just by never cleaning my room. My room was powerful: it provided excitement and comfort and mystery.

As a person’s personality shifts, so does their abode. The sickly walls had a mustard tint, but with the curtains drawn they shone golden; the beige floor looked bare, but covered in clothes looked welcoming; the aerosol atmosphere choked any who entered, but eventually could be masked by an assortment of perfumes. As the opinions of a surrounding – experiences, memories, emotions – change, the surrounding changes, as well.

Maggie F.