|This Room Is Empty
Author: Flies PM
A full descrition of the empty room, the over-filled hallway and the figure that filled the room.Rated: Fiction K - English - Spiritual - Words: 1,192 - Published: 09-24-06 - id: 2252182
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This room is empty.
From wall to wall there is no aesthetic value to this lifeless, empty room. There's nothing, only peeling wallpaper and gloom. The floorboards creak, but no one knows, for it's been ages since they've encountered shoes. There are no furnishings, nor photos on the wall, the air is thin and even though it's untamed it's spotless. Neither dirt nor dust had even begun to collect in the corners, and no spiders had spun webs to glisten in the sun. The empty room's lack of dirty was made up by it's lack of clean, where there was no dirt wallpaper still peeled. However, over the span of a week the wallpaper was peeled completely off, and no sign of it returned. The room containing nothing, the room that held no life nor dirt nor abandoned webs. No fire could set, even with all the gasoline in the world; it would just roll off the walls and into the hallway outside of the room. The hallway was filled from corner to rotting corner. Boxes and accessory items, from couches covered in boxes to lamps squeezed between the boxes all sat, collecting large amounts of dust and cobwebs. The wooden walls covered in mold and the barely visible carpet rotting under the mass amount of boxes. All the boxes of deteriorating cardboard held books, trinkets, antique like items, some holding soft dolls or children's toys. A few had CDs and one, a rather large one that was covered in duct tape and flies, was impossible to perceive what it might've contained. Although the flies might've indicated a rotting carcass. No person in their right mind would pass through such a maze hallway so unsteady with it's oversized load of boxes and furnishings. It seemed another feather would make it collapse through the floor, yet each day a new box came, filled to the brim, and the floor stayed up. Back inside the room itself, there was a single window. The window had been fogged over from exposure of a moist draft that still wafted through the room. In the glass pane was a finger-drawn heart, clean from the perspiration on the window, just two little halves of the same heart, drawn neatly with a long-gone fingertip. In memory of the once occupied room, the heart stays, perfect on the old window pane. The door to the room did not bulge from the calamity of boxes out in the hallway, but stood sturdy on it's rusted hinges. In it was carved a single letter, a lowercase "t". The doorknob had rusted so far that a single touch could lead it to crumble, but to it's own luck it hadn't been touched in ages. For years the boxes continued to accommodate the hallway, until they reached the ceiling, crushing the breakables in the lower boxes on their ascent to the top. The furniture, covered in boxes, broke off at the legs, and more boxes covered them, all continuing to ascend. The floor was buried and impossible to set foot on, and the doors on either side of the hallway were jammed by the boxes. No living thing could possibly get through to the room anymore, without serious excavation of the hallway leading to it. Smashed between a few boxes were sheets of peeled wallpaper, almost as if they had oozed from the empty room themselves. In the room, from the floorboards, began to sprout a single chair. An exotic round red-cushioned stool with four metal legs and a curved metal back, it looked uncomfortable and somewhat unstable. It came from the floorboards and stretched three feet tall over a period of a week. Like a tree in fast motion, made of metal and felt. It stood tall in the empty room, the rising sun steeping into the window in the shape of the silhouette heart, reaching it's brilliant curves around the shining metal. The old wood floors reflected the sunlight onto the ceiling so the heart traced both the floor and the ceiling, each heart facing the other with brilliant light. The chair stood, the heart shone, and when the sun went down, the chair was alone. With night the boxes fell through the floor, unable to stand up to the weight anymore. The duct taped box splattered open, bones of dust springing out and over the room below, which had several onlookers shocked by the mere existence of the things. The building was abandoned, the things continuing to pile up in the room below, starting in the broken hallway but falling below in a terrible mess. The chair continued to stand alone in the room, the sun reflecting the heart unto it during the day. Until finally, one day, a figure came to the room, walking over the boxes that had ascended to the place where the floor had once been. Though unstable, the figure walked on them like they were as solid as concrete, unaffected by their quivers underneath. Touching the doorknob, it didn't crumble beneath lengthy fingertips. The door opened with a little twist of the knob, black shined shoes touching the creaky floorboards. One step, two steps, three steps, all slow paced and elegant on the creaking floor. The door closed behind the figure, who didn't flinch at the terrible scream the hinges let out. The figure walked to the window, blocking the heart from the room, a long digit reaching out to trace over the heart. The figure then turned, walking to the chair and sitting down. The heart eclipsed the figure, reflecting to the floor, to the ceiling, over the chair in a perfect silhouette of the heart on the window, the sun gleaming beautifully. A careful smirk reached the figure's lips, a soft chuckle filling the room, filling the emptiness, filling the soul of the space. One leg folded over the other, hands clasped in lap, the sun went down again on the room. The heart was gone, but the chair, now occupied, was no longer alone. The room, now inhabited, was no longer empty. The heart, freshly traced over in the window, let the moonlight into the room in it's shape. The figure, sitting unmoving, stayed, and began to speak wonders of the outside world, began to explain the meaning of life, the dignity of soul. Endlessly the being spoke, the chair, the walls, the ceiling, the floor, the door with the "t", the rusted hinges and knob, the single window pane, the silhouette of a drawn-in heart, and the shining light from the outside all listening, all hearing. No more did the boxes ascend, but in fact they began to vanish with each new story until no box nor furnish remained outside the room. The floor of the hallway still rotted and gone kept the figure from leaving, although they didn't move to leave. The room provided water, which grew from the floorboards, and kept the speaker healthy for all the days they sat, speaking.
And filling the empty room.