Who says insanity isn't fun? I DO!
Oh, by the way, enjoy.
I open my eyes and see a ceiling. White. Cracked.
It's morning, and the window is big and square and the moon is gone. The sun is here, peeking shyly over the horizon.
I'm in my room again. Actually, it's the living room of our house. Cameron wanted the only other bedroom—Not fifteen steps away—and how could I say no to those puppy eyes? So for now I sleep on the couch, spongy pinkish stuff popping out of the rips. Cameron once said it reminded him of the spots on his arms, seeing how he can't stop picking at his scabs.
To me it looks more like brains oozing from the battered cushions now.
It's the only spot of bright color in here. The living room is a bit dull, I'll admit that and celebrate it.
It's off-yellow and peeling but still white in places, a pretty bone white—it's a dead room. Not a breath, no rhythmic pounding of a heart beat when I finally get the nerve to check the ground with my feet. Dirty brown carpet. Fuzzy but no warmth or movement.
I pull on a sweater as I ponder. Was it just a dream? An elaborate nightmare? No, that wasn't possible. It was much too vivid, even for me. But what does it matter? There is no door, just an archway to lead into the kitchen.
The only hungry mouth here is mine.
My stomach moans, the only sound besides my breathing. I feel gross, smelly and damp with sweat from that nightmare. First things first, I must try to fix myself up in the hallway bathroom. It's my everyday routine. The rush of cold water is relaxing. But the sound is so hollow.
I look in the mirror for a while, just waiting for the off-yellow behind me to melt away into slimy gray toad skin and the smell of dust and smoke to become humid and sour and burn my nose like mom's too-strong perfume. Thankfully, nothing happens, so I rake a comb through tangled black mass of my hair, twist it into a ponytail and kick into some pajama pants before I head to the kitchen. The cookies are still there. Sweet.
It was this Friday morning when I was in this kitchen, munching a warm chocolate chip cookie, only to black out. You know the rest.
I look at the clock—it's only been an hour.
Impossible. And even then, I should have woken up where I was.
Mom moved me, I guess. I sigh and scratch my head—then freeze.
Something is in my hair. I gulp and pull it out. Slimy, soft and still warm, it feels like flesh. It burns my fingers slightly, and I can swear it wriggles weakly in my hand.
It's a shred of the Gray Room.