When she entered the room, she had been prepared to see a neatly made bed, a clean room, a room where everything was at its place—or originally attributed place. The little toy was on the shelf with the others, not on the floor next to the bed as usual, the desk was empty of papers, there was only a lamp, a laptop, a plant and a few pens in a box. The rest was neatly organised in the drawers. Every pillow on the bed were at their places, the blanket was tucked on the sides and a little plushie was sitting in the middle of the bed, looking at the window. The desk chair was empty of clothes, only a jacket on its back as usual. The wardrobe was organised, with every clothes neatly folded and put at their places. The rug was clean, the shoes were organised. It smelled clean, fresh, nice.
When she entered the room, she was ready to see this. But maybe it was better that, when she did open the door, she saw the toy next to the bed, an unmade bed and a messy desk. The plushie was in the middle of the bed but laying down. The blanket was turned into a ball on one side of the bed, the desk chair was full of clothes and there was a shoe on the rug, alone. Maybe she was happier, because it gave a little bit of life in this room. Maybe she was happy that what all the movies made her believe in wasn't true at all... or that her son decided to not follow them—not like he followed anything anyway. Maybe, this is what kept her from crying, when she went to the window, and saw her son's body on the floor, outside.
