events of dorm room 253

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic


this is a short story about a man and a roommate struggling to live with each other. the main character in this novel immediately struggles with this other man that is living with him. this
characters dramatic unpredictability proves that even the most quit and reserved people in society, can do the most horrific and unspeakable actions a human can do.

Submitted: October 25, 2017

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Submitted: October 25, 2017

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Events of Dorm Room 253

 

Muggy, humid air filtered into the dorm room. The parchment paper clung to the plastic counter top dripping with last night’s hard liquor. I couldn’t imagine how I would finish this novel. Living amongst liquor bottles, spit cans, condoms and many other peculiarities. That night I sat motionless, staring up at the stippled ceiling. Thinking, that’s all I did. I thought and thought. You might think of me as mad, insane or scrambled. But don’t be fooled by the mask I’ve thrown on to conceal myself from other people’s thoughts. It’s all been in the works since I moved in here. Come morning, I woke up and prepared myself for theology class. Thrown all the books, scribblers, doodlers and fidgets into one bag and set off. I ignored the fact that people were literally eating each other in the halls. Making out vigorously, touching each other disturbingly and making noises that are inhuman. All the things that chill my bones and give me uncontrollable anger.

 Does there seem to be a sexual pleasure to puckering your lips? How does one even pucker? Questions that float around in the twisted convoluted network of thoughts inside my head. The study of Theology really didn’t help either.  Why study god? Is he real? Why do people praise a deity that is only based off myth and not fact? I question a lot. The constant chatter inside my head. Its murder. I just can’t seem to tell them to stop their chatter. It’s like a convention center. So, busy, so loud, so disorienting. I can’t seem to make it clear. But when I write, it’s like they walk away. Everything stops, everything is quit, and clear. I travel to a different world when my fingers start dancing on the keyboard. Serenity, that’s all I seek. That night, I sat against the hard headboard of my bed and I travelled to that distant world. I don’t know but, I think I got a few thousand words down. I don’t even know what I was typing. It’s like a different person is at the wheel. The thoughts just flow and flow, and letters pop up on the screen. It seems like I’m watching a movie, I sit back and enjoy what I see. My eyes are the movie screen and I’m sitting back, looking through them. But it seems all too real where I am.

 I quickly snap out of the trans like state and I shut the computer. I seem to be in a cold sweat, I’m breathing heavy, I feel light headed. I suddenly look around me and I see a handkerchief, a rope, and a piece of blank parchment. Thrashing my arms from side to side like a wild animal to get rid of these things. Why are they there? Where did they come from? What did I do? Is anybody hurt? I breath heavily and I scream along with every breath. A blinding white light screams through my doorway, following the blinding comes my dorm mate.

“Oh my god, what’s wrong?” he asked. I’m still breathing heavy, heart pounding through my chest. I reply out of breath.

“I... I... I don’t know. Where am I?” I asked.

“You’re in dorm room 253, you’re in Oregon. Have you been drinking?” he laughed. I shuffle in my bed anxiously.

“no, no of course not. You know I don’t drink,” I reply. My hand twitches, I jerk in my bed getting antsy, I feel the urge to throttle him till he drops.

“Well it really seems like it. You look like a freaking ghost,” he stood there concerned. Probably to wasted to even give a shit what I am or what I’m feeling. 

“Get out!” I throw my sheets at him while he scrambled out of the bedroom. My chest rises and falls with a rhythmic beat. The hairs on my arms are rigid. A yellow street lamp light cuts through my blinds like a butcher’s knife, casting a long ray of annoying light that bothers my eyes. The scrambled web of thoughts becomes clear. I’m not sure if it is clear but there’s three voices that shout the loudest out of them all. Where’s John? Go get him. Find him. The voices seem rehearsed, like they’ve memorized a bible verse. Over and over again, a constant rhythm, a constant tone, quit, a whisper.

 I hit the pillow hard, tuck the blanket close to my scruffy chin, and shut my eyes. Shut as a water tight door, like a blast door. Nothing will get through them. Nothing will open them. I lie in paranoia. I’m afraid. What’s happening to me? Is this fatigue that’s acting out, or is it something or someone else coming through?  But sadly, my hopes of it being a benign act would soon come to haunt me again. To calm me down, I try to pass a shot of bourbon down past my scratchy throat. It passes hard. I usually like this liquor, I usually think it just slips right down, touching my lips with its golden-brown shine. I stare at the old-fashioned glass like it’s a foreign object, studying its every curve and edge. I swish it around under my nose. The aroma lifts up and it crinkles my nose. I wonder why the bourbon passed so hard, and tasted so bitter and dry. Oh…. that’s right. I don’t think… it likes bourbon. I don’t think… it likes its golden-shine. I don’t think… it likes how it slips down. The glass goes flying across the bedroom and it imbeds itself within those horrid walls. Flexing my arms and breathing heavily, I shuffle across the dimly lit bedroom towards the wooden doorway. I slowly crack open the door just so a piercing light reaches my pale brown eye. I peer through the doorway and my eye catches him. Catches what the voices have told me to find.

 My pale circle that observes so silently scans what the voices want so bad. He sits casually in his lounger. He seems like he owns the place. One leg strewn over one arm rest and his arms stretched over the head of the chair. Oh, how it angered me.  Just try to be civil. Don’t cause a ruckus now. I shiver and shake. I’m just so angry, so violent, so hungry. I enter into his presence and the smell of sweat and liquor just overwhelms the senses. It crinkles my nose and ruffles my brow, I try not to lose my stomach over the festering body that lay before me.  I sit down on the love seat next to him patiently.

“What do you want?” he rubs his face vigorously. I sit upright watching the fire, crack, crackle. Oddly enough, it makes me laugh. Holy god! Why does this fire seem so alive! It’s just so funny. “What the hell is your problem?” he asks confused.

“Oh, nothing’s wrong. Just sitting by the fire… watching. Sitting next to you… watching” I giggle uncontrollably. I move uncomfortably close to him. While I shuffle over, I just keep my eyes on this one spot in the flame. Its flicker and dance just captivates me.  I get antsy, my legs move like pendulums, my hand twists in the pocket I’ve made with my other hand.

“Soooooo…. what’s going on with you man?” he questions, taking another swig of his rum bottle.

“Ohhhh nothing. Just sitting around, watching the fire. You know, what the cool cats do you know” I laugh again. I start bobbing my head to a beat of an unknown origin. My head swings back and forth, my body follows. Swaying back and forth, back and forth. Grooving along to the beat of the drums.

“Ok…. what the hell is the time anyways man? I have no idea how many shots or bottles I smashed through tonight but, fuck I have a differential calculus class tomorrow. Uhhhh why the hell am I even becoming a fucking engineer anyways. Fuck numbers!” he throws his empty bottle into the fire. It shuffles the flames around and sends up a plume of ash and smoke. He saunters into his bedroom, knocking into the door frame and finally flopping into the bed. I sit in the light of the fire. A dim glow that reveals the cracks and opens up the shadows. Darkness which crawls along the wooden floor like a snake waiting to strike. The shadows streaks across my face like a scar, while I feel the warmth of the glow against my pale skin, it touches my face with such carefulness and precision, it feels like a warm hand to lay in. The rum bottle violently flares on top of the embers, catching the alcohol a flame. It whizzes in pain, it pops and whizzes. Do I feel sympathy for the bottle? It’s just lying there, like a helpless child. The bottle slowly cease’s its pain. It starts to absorb the heat of the flame, it grows a glow on its back which moves to the front carefully and cautiously. I’m captivated by the marvel of fire. How it destructs, how it creates. Fire makes an object alive. Hot, fierce, dangerous, hungry for more. How nature can decide fate, it’s just absolutely marvelous. The choice to take or make life, how I envy that divine privilege. I retire for the night, silently slipping away to a place where I have finally reached serenity

I toss and turn in my heavy sheets and blankets; the morning sun pierces my curtains and shines a light into my dorm.  Oddly, the items that have startled me previously are still laying there, neatly along the bedframe. It still perplexes me, why they are there?  Why those three items?  How odd. I saunter out of bed and ready my clothes for the day. Thankfully I don’t have theology nor any of my other classes today, relaxation at last. I sit in the lounger my unhygienic acquaintance has kindly placed a stain of back sweat where I now seat. Uhhhh how I wish for him to drop dead. I grab my laptop and I quietly continue to write my novel which I’m eager to finish. Crafting a world which is entirely not true, it just excites me. How I can finally have that divine privilege which I desperately crave. To decide who lives, and who must eventually die. The tangled convoluted network of memories and thoughts becomes more twisted and dramatic. Where is he? Finish it now! Go find the one we need! I know you want to. I just can’t handle it anymore. While I’m mindlessly typing away at my keyboard, I travel to that place which I dread. The seat in the movie theater where I sit and watch what I’m doing, through the eyes of him, the real author of this novel. I get up from my chair, I walk about frantically in my dorm, I don’t know where I’m going but it seems that I’m determined.  Find it! You know where it is! From yesterday. The voices repeat their rehearsed lines. I walk into my bedroom and grab the three items, the rope, the handkerchief and the blank parchment paper. I squeeze them in my hand, thinking. I know my plan; the voices know my plan. They want me to execute the plan. I silently wait in the corner of dorm, quiet, waiting, stalking it. I wait for my prey to enter into my presence. I hear the dorm door crack open, just the slightest crack, just to see his horrid face. It turns my stomach inside out. Wait there he is. I’m ready. Am I ready, I don’t know if I can. Oh, I’m ready, yes, I can. Stalk slowly, talk little. Don’t let him know you’re here. I wait for the appropriate time to strike. The odor of his pits drives me insane, just mad. I wonder if he can hear them. There so loud, so fierce. Why can’t he hear them to? He puts his keys down in the wooden bowl just so perfectly placed on the island. I bend slightly over and run at him. My arms are curled and tense. I viciously grab my prey and thrash him against the wall. I slam my hand against his forehead and dig my thumbs into his glazed bloodshot eyes. It seems like forever but it only took a second. I hung him like a skinned animal, hanging to dry. The handkerchief covered his eyes to hide the fact he was being mutilated. I don’t think he needs that green cloth over his eyes anymore. If I remove the cloth… I don’t want him to get afraid of heights. Finally, I placed the blank parchment paper on his other member that he took immense pride in. I wrote a calming, yet assuring letter to his dear, unhygienic friends.

Dear friends of Nathan Mathews

I am pleased to inform you that what you see here, hung before you, are of my doing. Yes, it may seem freighting and quite disturbing at first, but pleased be reassured that his arms, his hands and his toes were put to good use. They are in good hands. Sadly, your dear friend was to put it bluntly, troubled. He was erratic, he was scared, he screamed in the middle of the night, he talked to himself and among other things. He was disturbing me from completing my most important work, my precious novel. I tried to talk sense into his damaged mind, but he utterly refused it. I want to explain that I truly did try to help him, he was indeed the poor troubled man in dorm room 253, I was not. 

Love,

Edward Bennet Lucius 


© Copyright 2019 Scott Jenkins. All rights reserved.

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