The door is shut, painted white on the inside, covered in Sharpie marker scribbles of quotes from books and famous people, well-known people. Inside, the walls are cream and the floors a glossy hardwood, covered in a blue rug, old and worn and in need of washing.

In the corner, the bed is a twin, with one pillow, grey and navy blue sheets, unmade. But the sheets look like they've lain upon recently. Beside the bed is an old wooden bedside table, littered with various pencils or varying sizes, erasers, shavings from both, and a journal, kept flat beneath the alarm clock that needs to be set. The drawers are closed, and the floor around the small table is impossible to see under ripped out pages and books.

Across from the bed is a wooden bookshelf, stacked with books of varying ages, genres and conditions. Most of the books are stacked on every available surface, tilting precariously. The gaps between the few on the shelves are filled with stacks of cassette tapes and CDs.

The table beside the shelves is covered with more notebooks and loose leaf pages, covered in either doodles or slanted handwriting. There's a box with a few pencils in it, but the majority of them are strewn amongst the papers and along the ground. Half covered by paper, there's an expensive looking laptop also on the desk, plugged into the wall. The lid is open, but the entire system is on stand-by.

Under the desk is another bedside table, and these drawers are open. They're filled with old sketchbooks, a picture frame of a young boy with an unfamiliar woman by an unfamiliar house and a box of British coins.

A black school blazer hangs from the handle of a closed closet door. This door is also scribbled on with a collection of quotes, written in multicoloured Sharpies which are scattered on the ground around the closet, as if the quotes are still fresh, only recently added.

The walls are bare, except for a mirror coloured over with Sharpie and covered in old Disney stickers. Around the bed are a few old newspaper clippings about book release dates, reviews and author interviews.

William - 16

The walls are a dark blue and covered in pin-ups of skimpily dressed women in provocative positions and sports teams. The door is half open, because the doorknob doesn't work, the bolt painted shut. The floor is a stained grey carpet, covered in clothes in desperate need of washing and shoes. Old underwear and missing socks line the ground under the twin bed with its dark grey sheets and two pillows. The bed is unmade, covered in open science textbooks and crumpled notes and worksheets.

At the head of the bed was a heavy wooden bedside table. A lamp stood watch over empty chocolate wrappers and coffee mugs with half an inch of bitter brown liquid and a bottle of cologne covered in dust. Under the analog alarm clock is a stack of porn magazines, various sex items hidden within the glossy pages – lube and condoms. The drawer is closed.

Across from the bed is a large wooden writing table. A few well-loved books are stacked in the corner, but the majority of the space is taken up by a stack of textbooks and other school paraphernalia, dirty dishes and more old wrappers, as well as a pair of dirty, well-worn cleats.

By the door is a duffel bag, reeking of sweat, zipper half open to show a practice jersey with the number '21' airbrushed on the back, running shoes and three pairs of bundled up socks. Stashed in the bag is a half full pack of smokes, brand hidden in the folds of the jersey, a small silver lighter hidden along with it.

Leaning against the wall, hidden mostly by the bed, is a large piece of wood that looks like it's been ripped from a headboard. The glossy piece of wood is covered by what looks like notches. Beside it, under the bed and hidden under missing socks, is a red Swiss army knife, initials 'W.W.' written on the bright red handle in silver pen.

William – 25 (May)

The room is plain and square, white walls and white drapes with dark grey accents. Not much room for personality. The bed is large, queen sized. The sheets are white, also plain, dark grey designs match the decor of the room. The only splash of colour comes from the view outside and from the heavy, wooden bedside table at the head of the bed. The table is covered in medication bottles, a cocktail made up of migraine medication, sleeping aids, muscle relaxant and Valium.

A half full glass of water next to a quarter full bottle of liquor, the label ripped away from the face. The cap is screwed on crookedly, a ring of moisture holding it fast to the table's surface, as if it has been sloshed over the sides more than once.

Two doors break the whiteness of the walls, both dark wood and closed. One leading to the bathroom off the bedroom, the other leading to the hallway. The one to the bathroom is not shut all the way, because the lock is messed up, and as soon as it closes it locks.

The bed is made, and looks like it hasn't been slept in for a few nights. All the medication bottles look like they've been taken in a hurry, the caps not put in place properly, or not put back at all.

The window is mostly clean, except a small smudge where it looks like someone pressed their forehead to the glass, residue from condensed breath still smudging the glass.

I live.

Kind of lost motivation for writing for a bit, but I'm back now and probably going to be more active again. Enjoy this for now, I guess, as I try to make these characters work again because ugh.