Chapter Nine

Pink Bedroom

“Princess?” he shook me slightly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I said opening my eyes. I am mesmerized.

“We are close,” another voice came from my back.

It was James.

“I’m just a little tired.” I replied.

“I could carry you if you want.” Paul offered and I was tempted to agree.

“It’s ok. I can still walk,” I blushed again.

Thank God I’m not feeling well or they’ll think I’m such an innocent little miss. I’m too old to blush.

‘Don’t act like a teenager Louisa! Grow up!’

I heard James sigh and I can’t help but think what that is all about. ‘It couldn’t be me.’

Dream on.

Finally we had the close-up view of the most awaited scene I’ve been thinking in minutes. What does James house look like?

The house is really nice. It is a bungalow painted in white with large shrubs near the gate. Pretty flowers bloom at one side of the garden and there’s a little swing under a shade of a tree. It is such a scenic home.

“Welcome home,” James said looking straight to me. I feel weird around him.

A stout woman in her early forties greets us at the front door. The house is a little stiff though I found it comfortable when I began to savor the pleasure of the velvet couch. The woman whom I assume is James mother offers us some juice and sandwiches. She’s such a pleasant and benevolent person that a pang of jealousy pinches my heart as I remember you.

‘I just wish you could be a little more like her.’

“Mom these are my friends, Arlene, Sarah and Louisa,” James introduced. “And obviously she’s my mom.” Then I saw him smirk at his mother.

James mother chuckle, it is a wonderful laugh.

“Anyway mom, Louisa is not feeling well.” Then he caringly looks at me. My hair follicles became active and stood up.

“Oh,” I heard her reply quite amused. “You have to rest. Come with me and sleep.”

“Don’t worry about me ma’am. I’m actually ok.” I said.

“Nonsense my child. Come now and follow me.”

I follow her while sending disapproval looks to James. He just shrugged.

We stop at the last opening in the right wing of the house. Then she opened the door.

The room is pink!

It is adorned with flowery curtains with a white unsoiled bed, fashionably designed and very feminine. I step back at the thought.

“You don’t like the room?” James mom asked.

“No!” I said. “I mean, I like it very much ma’am. This is such a pretty room.”

Is this even real?

“I’m glad you like it. I know this room suits you well. Hope you’ll fell well in the morning. Good night sweetie.” She smiled sincerely and hugged me before closing the door.

Then I am alone in the room.

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Tossing and turning in the soft, cozy bed didn’t help ease the uneasiness that registered in

my fickle little head. I know I should have said the truth about the room. It makes me feel

so love, as if it is real and I’m not imagining all these things.

All my life I have been wishing to have a room like this that explains my abrupt foolishness earlier. I am afraid I found a haven of blissful dreams. I should have enjoyed the thought of staying in the room but dreading that if I’ll sleep I’ll never be able to drench in happiness.

When was the last time you asked me what I want? You always assume that I like blue rather than pink. You let yourself believe that I’m an independent, strong willed, self-able woman like yourself.

I told you.

I am nothing like you.

Then I remembered my little secret behind the antique doors of my closet. It is hiding in the dark, longing to be a newfound flaw in my imperfect lonely existence. I want to convey all these feelings unto your feet but maybe not now.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe the day after that.

Maybe never.

I know after today I will be back to my own small little world of pretensions, dissections and rough contort bed. I do understand that after this dream I’ll be facing you again with anger and hidden avenge.

I am lonely.

Everything that I am doing right now is against my will. Every inch of unused talent is slowly drifting away from my grip. What do I want to do?

I want to act.

I don’t want to be a superstar but a star nevertheless. I do not want to be cosmic but fairly enough to be appreciated by a mass of people in dramatics.

I want to draw.

Paint the sunset and show my soul through stroking my brush in a plain palette of various colors. The artist in me is pleased about nature and I long to see those in canvass.

I want to dance.

Move my body in extreme and dynamic motions of unexpressed felicity. My fervor and festive feat will enable me to show the depth of my heart.

I want to write.

Express my undeniable grief in the midst of shallow prep talks and formal writing seminars. I want to write my core and give my pen the justice of disseminating my prejudices.

I want to be normal.

To escape this feeling of endless remoteness in the middle of cliques. My forlorn metric gives nothing but animosity.

I sure know what I want but haven’t got the power to obtain the least of it. I am, of course, able to decide what I can do to make my life happy. I am in the right age after all. But being involved in this kind of culture where you guys decide for us drive me nuts.

I hate the smell of loyal dogs and the ticklish fur of hairy cats. I am not a fair judge to disown them but I never intended to be nauseated in them too because of your persuasiveness.

I want to do what I want and being a veterinary student is not in my list of hopes and ideals.

All these came into my mind just because of being comfortable.

For now all I want is a pink bedroom.

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oh please would somebody be nice to read and review...