It is the quintessence of monotony: a mountain chain of stucco that lies atop fallow lots the size of kitchen magnets. Welcome to suburbia. I effortlessly enter my pervious pastel palace, but the voyage to my room is an uphill battle; it is quite an insurmountable quest. The trek to my cell consists of a frozen spiral staircase. It is not smooth and slippery, though, but rocky and perilous. The portal lies beyond the staircase?
I force my way through the abrasive forcefield of forbiddance. The shrieks of my tearing flesh are subdued by the overpowering silence of the room. Words are mouthed, but not spoken. They do not exist. This cubicle of torment does not allow language, the embodiment of opposition. As I step into my room, I notice all colors of the spectrum for a fraction of a second, then they appear red. Countless pictures adorn the walls; they are all of one person. I know her, but who is she? Her eyes are dark and enigmatic. I can see the sadness in her eyes. Her eyes. They lack the luminescence of the youthful character they portray. Her glances pierce through my being like light through glass. The carpet is a sea of scorn. It stabs my feet with its blades of contempt. The walls of mockery laugh at me as I foolishly try to climb them to rid myself of its presence. Yet there is no escape. I have inflicted more pain upon myself. Nothing is soft in here; everything is jagged. My un-sanded wooden dresser rests on the right side of the doorway. Figures of dancers with invisible partners lie atop the uneven surface. They seem to move slowly across the dresser, like seaweed drifting aimlessly across the sea. My unpleasant and discomforting bed of stone rests in the center of the room. It is not the usual shape of a bed. Rather, it seems as if it were molded to fit my body alone. Is there no solace? The closet stands only two feet away from the front of the bed. Inside is a world of death and destruction. My clothes are victims of either neglect or overuse. My shoes, an array of black, sit near the foot of the closet. They too are innocent victims of negligence or abuse. They are casualties of an reckless spirit. The stench of decay creeps from my nose into my mouth. I lick my lips in disgust of this new taste. As I look about the room, I notice the mirror above the dresser. It is warped and misleading. Gazing into the mirror, I see more than just my body. I see a being crying out because of the agony of distortion. She can not be heard.
A deluge of darkness overtakes my bedroom. My eyes are suddenly fixed on a beam of light. The radio that rests to the left of my dresser has a light that indicates power. It beckons me, but I am restrained by the dark angels in my bedroom. They always appear when I long for anything. They are with me, in my room, for eternity.