Painted Garden

      I stare out into the darkness that lurks outside of my window. The small window is cracked just enough so that I can feel small wisps of wind lick my face. I relish the feeling, for it is something that I do not get to feel often. Normally the window would be sealed shut with no hopes of opening, but luckily for me it was growing old and a thin crack was splintering across the glass. The sensation only makes my heart ache. How I long until I will be able to leave this room?

     My eyes sweep the circular room. My bed was laid out in the dead center of the room, draped in luxurious fabrics that were soft to the touch. There were bookshelves curving along any of the surrounding walls. Where there were not books, there were handpainted roses wrapping around every inch of the white wallpaper. The well polished checkered floor clashed against the roses, but when I had expressed my love for flowers, this is what Keeper had done for me.

      Instead of being comforted by the sight of my own painted rose garden, I am sickened. They mock me. These roses are false, just like everything else in here. They are an illusion of false hope, false happiness, and false love. Everything he does for me, is just like these roses. I rise from the small wooden chair that I had situated next to my window and circle the room, my fingers trailing the shelves, much like I do every day. I had read all of these books time and time again and now they held no purpose but to stay on the shelves, only to be moved when there was nothing else to do. I made my way over to the left hand side of the room, leaving little finger trails in the dust as I went, and stood before the shelf that hurt me the most. This was a bookshelf that was dedicated to the thousands of stuffed animals and toys he had bought me. They were the only things I could associate with besides Keeper. I scanned the shelves for one that seemed to spark interest.

      I smiled slightly at the pink rabbit while looking over the lolipop it held in its hand. This toy was for children. Someone of my age shouldn't be so happy to be clutching something like this. But it is all I have.

      Pressing the toy to my bosom, I turn and glide around the room, my footsteps taking on an almost dance-like step. I smile down at the toy, almost expecting it to smile back up at me. I fall backwards onto my bed and sink into the many comforters. The toy's unseeing eyes are the last thing I see before drifting off into a restless sleep.