Written in the spur of the moment so please excuse mistakes
My eyes snap open. I'm in a room with no end and no beginning. I am surrounded by white. The floor has no shadows, and there is no source of light that I can comprehend. The sterile whiteness reminds me of the hospital room where pops died of cancer. The world turns and suddenly I'm there, the very same room where I cried for the last time. It is exactly like it was when I was six years old. The same crisp white bed sheet the same stinging smell of the disinfectant, I almost thought it was a different room, one which no one had died in, but the sharpie sketch on the bed frame was the attestation that it was the same room. Just like it was when I was six, his favourite book, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, was sitting on the bedside table, causing me to reminisce memories of the library at the italian mansion I visited last summer.
The room sways and then I'm there, in the library. When my stomach stops spinning I stumble over to the shelves before me. They are exactly as I remember them, from the antique chestnut wood to the collection of Jane Austen novels with linen bindings to the bronze inscriptions on the upper corners of the high ceiling. The mint green and gold peeling wallpaper and the intricately swirling plaster of the arched doorway. The unique smell of old books, mothballs and cherry blossoms and the pine wood floor boards. Alike the the hospital, there is no one else here, just me, myself and I. I gaze out the window and watch the sun dance over the clear, still lake. I dont know how long I stare intently at the lake, but not once do I see a ripple or even a hint of life under the glittering surface. Just like the one in Scotland I visited, Loch Shin.
YOU ARE READING
Memory room
FantasyA room with no end, no beginning and no reason. Not to be duplicated, mimicked or seen elsewhere. No real name, so it is called the memory room.
