Dots and Zeros [Completed]

1. Sam

My new room is bigger than the last one. I like it. There's a huge window looking out on the backyard. Sepia curtains hang on either side. Besides those, there's a bed and a desk. A closet as well. There are fifteen boxes of stuff waiting for me outside, expecting to be unpacked.

There are more important things going on, though. There's a drill and screws on the desk. On my bed a pile paintings. Some on thin wood, others sturdy paper. A few on canvas. There's plenty of boring, white wall to cover.

I can hear mom from downstairs. She must be unpacking kitchen boxes by the sound of it. Metal on metal echoes through the house. I can make noise, too.

The first painting on my bed will go next to the door. I pick up the drill and painting, put a screw between my teeth and start working. I've done this plenty of times before. It's an easy task; it just takes some time. When half of the paintings are up I hear mom coming up the stairs. With every step the staircase slightly creaks.

Right after I take a screw out of my mouth there's a short knock on my door.

'How are we doing over here?' she asks as she's opening the door.

Her dark brown hair is up in a ponytail, her sleeves are rolled up. Her flushed cheeks match the sneakers she's wearing. A glass of tea is held in her right hand.

I wave vaguely with my arms. She looks around the room following my gestures.

'You're putting them all up?'

'That's the plan.'

'That's... a lot. Are you sure they're all gonna fit?'

'Yes.'

Her brow furrows as she looks at me. I feel obliged to ask the most obvious question.

'What is it? Why the motherly concern on your face?'

'I just... it's a lot of paintings. And you're always making more.'

'So?'

'If you don't hang up the ones you like the least, you'll have more rooms for the more fun and new ones.'

She takes some steps into my room and puts the tea on my desk. I feel a long conversation coming, so I sit down on my bed.

'I had enough space last time. And this room is even bigger,' I say.

'I remember seeing them stacked under your bed. On top of the closet. Behind the closet. In front of your window. Not a single photon was able to enter that room.'

As she lowers herself into the desk chair I try to think of a rebuttal. There was no denying what she said, but maybe I could make it less bad?

'I have to live in it. Not you.'

It doesn't seem to matter to her.