The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire, and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
‘The Room in a Crumbling House’ by Amara Holland
Here, I am stuck in a room. The house around it is slowly crumbling. No matter how many times I replace a brick here, plaster there, it always begins to crumble again. Those days when it feels like the walls are going to cave in onto me, I go here–to this room. The floors are billowing, my feet sink into it. I feel like I can’t fall here because I know the floor will lift me back to my feet. My foundation. My toes grip the fibers because it’s comforting–a reflex, like a baby sucking its thumb. Grip. Release. Grip. Release. Grip.
I am stuck in this room and I do not mind. I take solace in knowing when I wake up I will be back in my familiar, crumbling house. But for now, I am surrounded by fur. The walls are covered in fur. They twist in on me like a group hug–suffocating but validating. The walls understand me. Afterall, they hear my cries, absorb my silent screams, and keep me safe from my dilapidated house. This is why I like it here. I feel like this room thinks for me. I don’t have to do much work. I don’t have to carry the load for a little while.
Hot pink, red, and deep purple is cast from the corner of the room to the ceiling. It’s vibrant but doesn’t hurt my eyes. And it’s almost like I can feel it on me. As if my skin slips off of my bones like a thin silk to become these colors. The pink and red and purple become a vessel for my aching joints and heavy bones. I can be weightless here. I don’t feel pain in this room I’m in.
This room I am stuck in is the only place I can feel everything and nothing at the same time. As I walk through the threshold, I am duplicated. I can watch my second self feel every emotion I don’t have the capacity to feel. I can experience all of my stress as if I was in the audience at a play. I can think about all the ways I’ve been broken without the urge to run away. I can realize all the ways I’ve been rebuilt without second guessing myself.
Since I’m already trapped in this room, I might as well breathe more of its air. Fill my lungs. My exhale comes out more like a cough. I can see my thoughts written on the walls. I’m forced to reckon with everything that comes to my mind. The more I think and think and think, the room becomes a whirlpool. The floor I’m still gripping with my toes becomes a spiral. I can make any decision I want in this room. Should I follow the hypnotic swirl or close my eyes shut? Should I explore the depths of my own mind? Am I prepared for what I might find?
I am locked into this room. I don’t like rollercoasters and this feels like the time I psyched myself into wanting to ride the biggest ride at Six Flags. I was ready until the attendant locked my harness to keep me in. I no longer felt protected, I felt trapped. Held against my will. Kidnapped. I feel like a hostage in this room. I’ve fallen down this spiral and I don’t like what I found. The furry walls no longer feel soft. My toes are cramping from gripping the floor. I want control over my body again. This weightlessness feels more like free-falling.
I’m ready to leave this room. I shouldn’t have jumped into the spiral on the floor. I want to turn around but I think it’s too late. I shut my eyes tight. My eyelashes kiss my cheeks. I bring my limbs close to my sides. I grip the sheets of the bed I made in this room. I hold onto anything that feels real.
Here, I am stuck in a room. In the morning, I’ll remind myself that the room doesn’t really exist. I respawn in my crumbling house. The walls are like a patchwork quilt. The ceiling is still cracked. The windows are still boarded up. The room I was stuck in is nothing but an empty escape. The room I was trapped in is nothing but my own mind bending and avoiding anything I tell myself I am too weak to handle sober. I hold myself because it’s comforting–like a baby sucking its thumb. Hold. Hold. Hold. Until it’s time to escape again.
