Post by Roma on Jul 4, 2005 23:58:52 GMT -5
Erm. This is the begining of a novella I was working on a while ago, called "The Room." In essence it's about a child who is adopted into an abusive family, and basically tortured. This isn't for the faint of heart, and some of the imagry in here might be disturbing, so please, don't continue reading if you're in a happy mood. Plus, this contains a curse word or two, and I don't know whether the Profanity filter on this site is on, so, don't read this if you are an ethically constrained person.
Aside from the "disclaimers," I'd like to say I'm gunna give this a shot, and see what you guys thought of it. This is by far not my best writing, but I figured if you guys like it, I might whip up a better copy, and continue on it. So in other words, please reply, and tell me what you think. ^_^
Well, here goes:
The room was as he had left it. Black, and dark. It had all begun in darkness, and the darkness had grown into an entity beyond reason. The darkness had filled every pore of his soul, and every bit of his existence, and still filled them. He often had dreams where he went back, and it became completely real again for him. His entire dark childhood brought to life again with terrifying realism. It had started in darkness, and it had started in his room.
Thirty years later as he looked at it again, a dark dread still leapt up in his heart, and every fiber of his body screamed for him to run, and get away. Though his memories came back to him in floods. The blood, the pain, and worst of all the loneliness. The loneliness had spawned utter terror. Loneliness spawned the hate that consumed him, and mingled with the darkness, filling him entirely with its dark essence.
The room was as he had left it. The closet doors still stood open, and the weight of the room with no windows still bore down upon him. His mind swam back to his childhood and the terror that followed it, like a menacing shadow. On the left wall was a bunk bed. The stained wood at first had been smooth, but now stood rough, and accusing in the half-darkness. The light had come on, surprising Cameron. Oh how he had wished for it before. Oh how he had wanted for the light switch by the door to work, and for the lock to open. But it never had.
The door handle was an old one, the kind where one can see through the keyhole to the other side if it is unlocked, which it rarely had been. The lock had been reversed, and it locked from the outside. The handle on the inside was dark with oils of skin, and it too glared at Cameron like the bunk bed did. At the base of the door there were scratches from fingernails, and old stains of blood. His own. The paint had been torn off of the door with the frantic scratching, and the wood had worn and splintered where fingers had fought to get out.
The bunk bed’s posts had teeth marks in them, and were too stained by the dark crimson fluid. Almost everything in the room had blood on it; even the white closet doors, whose color was a mockery of the darkness in the room, and whose function laughed at him in waves of tears, ever reminding Cameron that they would never be used as intended. And now they stood open as he had last left them, when he had been dragged from his room screaming, in a straight jacket. The child of the past screamed with such vivacity that he had burst a blood vessel in his forehead. Cameron still remembered how the clean white of the jacket had stained so quickly with his crimson fluids.
His mouth went dry as he realized how small the room was, and how as a child he had always wished that he could run, and the walls would magically expand to let him free. But they never had, always standing like bitter sentinels to the outside world, barring Cameron into his prison of horror. The door was in the southeast corner of the room as he faced into it. To his direct right were the closets, which spanned the whole right wall. The room was at the end of the hallway, on the left, about twenty feet after one had come up the stairs, and turned at ninety degrees to walk down the path to hell. Past the room there was only a wall. The wall was dead, flat and white.
Cameron’s head swiveled back out into the hallway and looked left, towards the room that stood on the opposite side of the hall, it’s door open and welcoming. His gaze continued past it to the narrow stairwell, which led downward to a door that had no handle on the inside, for very good reason. His head turned back into the room, and darkness enveloped him yet again. The darkness seemed to glow from the room, absorbing all light, and feasting on all that was joyful. The darkness laughed at tears, and cheered at blood. The darkness grew as the closet doors opened on their own accord, and a young child’s scream filled the small enclosure with no windows.
To the left, just inside to doorframe on the wall was a light switch panel. When Cameron had returned to his room he had flipped the switch, not expecting it to turn on, and when it did after a pause of seconds and a crackle of dust, he had nearly s*** himself in shock.
A dark colored dresser made of stained wood stood with its drawers open and empty. He had never used that one. It had splinters. Splinters made blood. Blood attracted him. Squared in the east-left corner of the room was the bunk bed. The plaster around it was dented, and where the wall had once been dark blue, almost black, it dad turned white as the drywall had chipped from the beating of the bed against the wall.
Cameron stumbled forward, and lay on the bottom bunk of the bed. Its paper-thin white sheets smelled strongly of mildew and of the old coppery smell he had come know oh-so-well. Cameron had never slept on the top bunk, as there had never been blankets. Yet the bunk still held a mattress, and it still lay there as it always had, radiating its own breed of terror. The terror was called time. The terror was called death, and rot, and age. It was the terror one felt when alone in the dark in the old kitchen in the church, when one opened the oven to find an old dish, the sauce congealed, and the noodles hard, and skin-toned like bone that has been left for so long in the dark. It was the terror one felt when one went up into the attic and saw the coat-rack standing alone. It was an indescribable terror, one that could not be calculated away by the mind.
Cameron lay on his back, a single pillow that smelled of vomit and spit behind his head, eyes facing the far wall of his room. The left-hand corner was darkened from urine, and bodily wastes. Cameron closed his eyes and fought back a tear. To the right was another dresser, stained the same dark shade as the other one, this one with clothes sticking out of its open drawers. A single rock sat on top of it, its edges coated in blood, once again, his own.
Inside the closet empty shelves stood like skeletal remains.
Skeletons in the closet. Cameron chuckled. It was a hollow laugh, lacking emotion. There was nothing funny about his room. There was only darkness. And in the darkness, unspeakable things.
His eyes closed and he allowed himself to fall back into the darkness. He allowed his mind to journey back forty years to when it all began.
Aside from the "disclaimers," I'd like to say I'm gunna give this a shot, and see what you guys thought of it. This is by far not my best writing, but I figured if you guys like it, I might whip up a better copy, and continue on it. So in other words, please reply, and tell me what you think. ^_^
Well, here goes:
The room was as he had left it. Black, and dark. It had all begun in darkness, and the darkness had grown into an entity beyond reason. The darkness had filled every pore of his soul, and every bit of his existence, and still filled them. He often had dreams where he went back, and it became completely real again for him. His entire dark childhood brought to life again with terrifying realism. It had started in darkness, and it had started in his room.
Thirty years later as he looked at it again, a dark dread still leapt up in his heart, and every fiber of his body screamed for him to run, and get away. Though his memories came back to him in floods. The blood, the pain, and worst of all the loneliness. The loneliness had spawned utter terror. Loneliness spawned the hate that consumed him, and mingled with the darkness, filling him entirely with its dark essence.
The room was as he had left it. The closet doors still stood open, and the weight of the room with no windows still bore down upon him. His mind swam back to his childhood and the terror that followed it, like a menacing shadow. On the left wall was a bunk bed. The stained wood at first had been smooth, but now stood rough, and accusing in the half-darkness. The light had come on, surprising Cameron. Oh how he had wished for it before. Oh how he had wanted for the light switch by the door to work, and for the lock to open. But it never had.
The door handle was an old one, the kind where one can see through the keyhole to the other side if it is unlocked, which it rarely had been. The lock had been reversed, and it locked from the outside. The handle on the inside was dark with oils of skin, and it too glared at Cameron like the bunk bed did. At the base of the door there were scratches from fingernails, and old stains of blood. His own. The paint had been torn off of the door with the frantic scratching, and the wood had worn and splintered where fingers had fought to get out.
The bunk bed’s posts had teeth marks in them, and were too stained by the dark crimson fluid. Almost everything in the room had blood on it; even the white closet doors, whose color was a mockery of the darkness in the room, and whose function laughed at him in waves of tears, ever reminding Cameron that they would never be used as intended. And now they stood open as he had last left them, when he had been dragged from his room screaming, in a straight jacket. The child of the past screamed with such vivacity that he had burst a blood vessel in his forehead. Cameron still remembered how the clean white of the jacket had stained so quickly with his crimson fluids.
His mouth went dry as he realized how small the room was, and how as a child he had always wished that he could run, and the walls would magically expand to let him free. But they never had, always standing like bitter sentinels to the outside world, barring Cameron into his prison of horror. The door was in the southeast corner of the room as he faced into it. To his direct right were the closets, which spanned the whole right wall. The room was at the end of the hallway, on the left, about twenty feet after one had come up the stairs, and turned at ninety degrees to walk down the path to hell. Past the room there was only a wall. The wall was dead, flat and white.
Cameron’s head swiveled back out into the hallway and looked left, towards the room that stood on the opposite side of the hall, it’s door open and welcoming. His gaze continued past it to the narrow stairwell, which led downward to a door that had no handle on the inside, for very good reason. His head turned back into the room, and darkness enveloped him yet again. The darkness seemed to glow from the room, absorbing all light, and feasting on all that was joyful. The darkness laughed at tears, and cheered at blood. The darkness grew as the closet doors opened on their own accord, and a young child’s scream filled the small enclosure with no windows.
To the left, just inside to doorframe on the wall was a light switch panel. When Cameron had returned to his room he had flipped the switch, not expecting it to turn on, and when it did after a pause of seconds and a crackle of dust, he had nearly s*** himself in shock.
A dark colored dresser made of stained wood stood with its drawers open and empty. He had never used that one. It had splinters. Splinters made blood. Blood attracted him. Squared in the east-left corner of the room was the bunk bed. The plaster around it was dented, and where the wall had once been dark blue, almost black, it dad turned white as the drywall had chipped from the beating of the bed against the wall.
Cameron stumbled forward, and lay on the bottom bunk of the bed. Its paper-thin white sheets smelled strongly of mildew and of the old coppery smell he had come know oh-so-well. Cameron had never slept on the top bunk, as there had never been blankets. Yet the bunk still held a mattress, and it still lay there as it always had, radiating its own breed of terror. The terror was called time. The terror was called death, and rot, and age. It was the terror one felt when alone in the dark in the old kitchen in the church, when one opened the oven to find an old dish, the sauce congealed, and the noodles hard, and skin-toned like bone that has been left for so long in the dark. It was the terror one felt when one went up into the attic and saw the coat-rack standing alone. It was an indescribable terror, one that could not be calculated away by the mind.
Cameron lay on his back, a single pillow that smelled of vomit and spit behind his head, eyes facing the far wall of his room. The left-hand corner was darkened from urine, and bodily wastes. Cameron closed his eyes and fought back a tear. To the right was another dresser, stained the same dark shade as the other one, this one with clothes sticking out of its open drawers. A single rock sat on top of it, its edges coated in blood, once again, his own.
Inside the closet empty shelves stood like skeletal remains.
Skeletons in the closet. Cameron chuckled. It was a hollow laugh, lacking emotion. There was nothing funny about his room. There was only darkness. And in the darkness, unspeakable things.
His eyes closed and he allowed himself to fall back into the darkness. He allowed his mind to journey back forty years to when it all began.