Choco-Cinnamon Make Me Something Stupid [WONJAY]

La voiture Rouge

A room filled with dark brown bookshelf upon bookshelf, with red books rising to the ceiling. The pink crown only peeked if one would dare to stare high enough.

A singular cherry wood desk stood aside, a red chair tossed away.

Windows blocked by blood red curtains from ceiling to floor dragging along the cold brown wooden floors.

Jay felt trapped. Of course, this wasn't the first time, but he always hopes it is the last.

The looming walls always frightened him. With the dark colored ceiling boxing him in. His eyes follow the pattern of wallpaper as it leads towards the dark red door.

The room was locked from the outside and inside.

No one was permitted in.

If he could do it, he wanted to just get up and unlock it. 

See the hallway decor.

With its vibrant colors of various waves.

Of various shades.

If only he could walk up to that door.

Click

And see the decor.

His mother promised he would be let out early today. The more and more time passes, the more he thinks that his mother forgot about him in this lofty tower.

The walls feel as though they are hugging him tighter and tighter with each shallow breath. He feels as if he's being wound up and up. A top spinning and spinning, but unlike a top, he doesn't stop spinning.

He's hungry.

The last tray he got was what he thought was yesterday.

It was a plate of a multitude of dishes, he thought. Warm and cold, soft and crunchy, sour and salty.

They were all some sort of red, from bitter plums to tomato soup or kidney beans.

He craved sweetness.

A sweet treat of red or spice.

He hungers. It was yesterday that he had last eaten.

Or may it be an hour ago.

Time melts when one is overwhelmed by the sensations of red.

The feeling pooling over and over until all one had was nothing but this feeling of heat touching every nerve.

His room prickled at the slightest touch.
At the slightest flinch, at the slightest hint of difference.

His eyes follow the lining of the wallpaper. It should be black. But all he sees is a dark red, a paintbrush painting back and forth.

Back and forth.

He closes his eyes and heaved a breath, rolling into the pearly pure white sheets.

Curtains were drawn to a close, but he could still feel the tough of the hot sun. He cringes to hide underneath his covers.

If he could stand up, he would have left hours ago. If he could open his eyes without feeling the sense of utter haze, he would have left the room days ago.

Still, he is unable to stop the scent of roses dancing across the room. The vivid picture of roses in various vases in varied figures dance in his vision. He whines and covers his neck.

He tries to rise from the pure white sheets, only to fail falling on his back. He whispers to himself teary-eyed. For failing over and over again.

The scent of distress reaches all corners of the room, concentrated to the point of poison.