Ghost House

The room, the room is cozy. Clean and bright and spacious. The walls are painted in soft earth tones, except for the feature wall directly behind the bed which is wallpapered with geometric pattern edged with gold on an eggshell background. The ceiling is white. Not stark white but warm like sunset’s glow on summer months. The night tables with curved legs are painted cream, distressed and dirtied to give them a used look some people find beautiful. On them are tall matching lamps with ornate base and aloe vera plants in white pots. Next to the plant on the right are a sheep and lamb figurines and an angel made of metal painted off-white and brown. On the left sits another angel, a rag doll with her own miniature doll, again off-white, with lace trimmings. Next to it is a bottle of water and a book. Aside from a painting on wood of some African image which looks like a Masai tribe from a distance but only blobs of faceless colors when viewed closer and a large rectangle mirror with carved wooden frame painted in nude color, the walls are otherwise devoid of any ornamentation.

The bed itself is a farmhouse-style metal bed with iron frame in a dark roast finish. It was once a canopy bed when it was standing in a much bigger room in a much bigger house. Now, the posts have been removed to accommodate the low ceiling of a cottage style house it now belongs to. The beddings are white with crocheted edges, two of the six pillows have crocheted cases. One of them is ergonomically designed suited for special needs. The comforter is thick and fluffy and warm. Too warm. There is a metal rocking chair at the foot of the bed piled high with stuffed toys in various sizes. All of them in neutral colors the darkest of them all, black. Nobody knows the existence of a big kitchen knife under the pillow. In case…

The woman on the bed can’t stop looking at the tiny gap between the curtains. Cream colored curtains that filtered the light softly making the room much brighter without being intrusive. It bothers her, the gap. Keeps her from closing her eyes and concentrate on trying to sleep. Not that it is the reason why she’s lying awake but it does certainly contribute to the agitation she’s feeling right now. Where is that coming from, this nervousness, the feeling of being incomplete and missing out on something? The state of being numbed and not there. Existing but not alive, dead, dead inside dead in her head. 

When she was eight years old, she found out while standing on the breakwater her father had painstakingly made to keep the waves from crashing against the dikes, that the world has nothing to offer to her. The certainty of being been there done that twice over and back again still with the same conclusion was so strong it took all her power not to jump in the water and drowned herself. That feeling never changes through the years but somehow she managed always to go on searching for anything that could prove her wrong and it kept her alive, able to enjoy momentarily pleasures, but only for a time before she embarks into another fruitless quest of finding even she herself doesn’t know.

But never she felt as dead as now, disconnected unable to feel anything. Does she come full circle? Is this it? Is this the end? If she could only sleep. Then, perhaps she could think clearly. But the gap between the curtains bothers her. She must stand up and close it, prevent the light from entering and crowding her thoughts. But she knows if she stands up she will not be able to go back to bed and sleep. Oh, if there is only someone who could do it for her but there is no one, no one is around. She could kill herself and nobody would know. Not for weeks, not for months. Nobody would miss her. Is that a blessing or a curse?

Ignore the gap, ignore the light, ignore the feeling of being dead, she survives so far by doing exactly that, burying the feelings deep inside eventually she becomes numb. Close your eyes and pretend like always -she said to herself- just close your eyes…