the room of tears, fears, and a riddle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
when you go into a coma, no one really knows what is going on in your head.

not until now.

Submitted: March 06, 2017

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Submitted: March 06, 2017

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Eyes are the windows to the soul, an open portal to an unknown, dark unknown universe. A smile plastered on a face cally be a tear inside the brain, a rip of flesh inside the heart. And yet no one seems to pay to close attention to them, unless smeared with the colors of a thousand souls, powder dusted across an eyelid to attract attention. To feel whole. Big bushels of lashes glued to an eye to watch the reactions of others. To marvel. The colored contacts, colors to conceal a feeling of unworthiness, a feeling of darkness surrounding an image. To0 fat, to0 thin, there’s nothing you can do to please everyone.

Yet we still try.

Sitting in a room of mirrors, a room of fears, I take notice to the flaws. The supposed muffin-top, the squashed nose, and small lips. The big ears, the long limbs, and spider fingers. Only things that one who hated themselves so much could notice. And on impulse I look away, straight to the table full of products to rearrange your bone structure, an illusion to the naked eye. So I take the products and work the magic, never once stopping to think if I could have left the room, nothing but bare skin, I might get a few looks, but grace for looking normal. Like a human, and not an alien. Maybe influence a few children into not ruining their features, botox infiltrating their systems.

I can never leave the room, never find a way to leave. Food appears three times a day, but I only eat a third of it. They never kept to my diet, so I had to just reduce the amount of food I ate. The walls were mirrors, the floor white tile. On the one side of the room was a twin sized bed, white sheets, metal framing. Unassuming. It was hell, with all the beauty products you could imagine. I hadn’t seen daylight in 2 years, the fluorescent lights gleaming overhead, a pill of vitamin D given to me with each dinner. The intercom would go off every three hours, saying the same thing every time;

Learn not to impulse

Learn to love

Learn yourself

Be free

The first three weeks I had screamed. Tried to fight the routine. Cried, my soul burning with every wail, sharp pains hitting my wrists when I used shards of glass on them, willing myself to die. To burn in the abyss of pain and sorrow. But I never brought myself quite to it.

It was part of the curse my brain had brought upon me. I asked for plastic surgery when the food appeared, and when the intercom came on. It was legal, I had turned 18 two days ago. But they never answered, just keeping the same boring recordings ringing. I knew that there was a reason I was here. And the same thought in the back of my brain, the intercom was the answer out of here. The only way to escape. But I couldn’t comprehend it, my brain couldn’t seem to think of anything except my routine. I was content here, hours of makeup to amuse my low standards. Every year they would tell us it was a new start, a new beginning. A new chance. I didn’t know how many other rooms there were, how many other people were locked in rooms, no window or doors, but mirrors.. Endless mirrors. So many mirrors. So many versions of a flaw.

The meal appeared, a dinner I would assume. Mushroom soup, a chicken breast, a small salad. I ate most of it, it was a cheat day. Enveloping myself in itchy white sheets on a back-breaking mattress I fall into the darkness that was my haven. My safe place from the white, white, white.

When I wake up I feel drowsy, and decide that the day isn’t right for makeup. The mushroom soup leaves me blinking and the room dizzying. An overcoming anger fills my senses, anger blinding my brain, covering it with a thick sheet of red, rusted, metal. The stool I sit at was flung into the mirrored wall. The shatters of glass flying across the floor, loud clatters. I can’t deal with the room, the loneliness, and the makeup that seems to torment my every move. I take a long, slender slice of glass, and hold it up to my throat.

 

The hospital room is white, the sleeping girl’s breathing even. Two years she’d been asleep, in the coma that she could possibly never wake up from. The mother sits in the chair, watching her daughter. The beeping of her heart beats lulling the mom to sleep. The dad walks in, and the room goes silent. The dad yells, the mom startles, the doctors and nurses rush in, shoving the parents out of the way. The last glimpses of the daughter was her twisted face, and a gash on her throat, exposing the organs within and the blood seeping into the white sheets.

Few could match the immediate absence of the girl, how her darkness seemed to darken the mood of the room. The parents never grew ‘right’ again, the last traumatic memory was the one of their daughter, the smell of iron in the air, and the dark maroon colored blood that had escaped her throat so quickly without explanation.

The only explanation was the one inside the girl’s head.

The great white room, the Room of Fears, Tears, and a Riddle.


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