ROOMS

The girl lived in a sweet little house near the end of a cul-de-sac in a peaceful neighborhood full of old growth trees. She had filled her little house with books and art and other magical things. She was very happy in the house. Contented. Safe.

On an early morning she'd make her cup of coffee in one of her favorite rooms. Over the years she had named the rooms in her house. She'd once even considered stenciling the names on their doors, but that idea seemed too obvious, and frankly rather silly, so she didn't do it.

The kitchen was the Epicurean Room. When she opened the cupboard containing coffee and spices, the aroma filled her with the joy of cooking.

The front room of the house was the Friendship Room, where she'd spent so many great times visiting and talking and laughing and drinking wine with old friends and new.

Toward the back of the house was the Arts Room – fitted with bookshelves, a desk, a drafting table and cabinets full of colors – paints and pencils. It was there she did her work, mostly drawing illustrations for books, and making paintings.

Through the window she could see the garden, which she thought of as the Outdoors Room, where in a small plot she grew herbs and vegetables in the summer. The perimeter was lined with trees and lilac bushes.

Forward from the Art Room was the Sleeping Room. She had painted the walls a deep purple color and hung Moroccan lamps which, when lit, made lovely patterns everywhere. The bed's coverlet was midnight blue with gold stars and planets.

The girl turned back into the hall. She lingered to appreciate the way the light yellow of a quiet sunrise was slowly filling the rooms. She had started back toward the Epicurean Room with her empty coffee cup when she noticed a door in the hallway which was ajar. It belonged to a small room, not much bigger than a closet, which she had not named, mostly because she never knew for what purpose this room was intended. It contained nothing but a tiny window up near the ceiling. When she stepped forward to close the door, something like a quick blast of wind pushed her off balance, and thrust her inside. The door slammed shut behind her. It all happened quickly.

She could see just a bit of the morning light through the tiny window. She turned, grabbed the doorknob and twisted it. The door did not open. It seemed to be stuck. Or locked.

The girl took a step back, into the room. She was still wearing her pajamas; her phone was on the bedside table. She thought back over her calendar and knew it was unlikely that anybody would be stopping by her house today, or in the coming days. She tried the door again. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she found the corner of the room, sat down and leaned back. She thought, “there must be a logical way to get out of this.”

But she began to feel uneasy. Trapped. Unable to even call for help. She sat in the silence for a long time, and then she began to worry. She hadn't taken her meds for the morning. The deadline for her recent project was tomorrow and she absolutely could not miss it – she really needed the money. WHY, she thought, why was this door stuck? Her back hurt and her legs felt cramped. She stretched her legs out and did some forward bends to alleviate the stiffness. It helped a little.

Someone would come soon, she thought. If she heard the doorbell, she'd just yell as loud as she could and someone would either break a window and get in, or go for help.

Time passed.

Slowly, her thoughts started to turn inward. The thoughts appeared in images – like little movies. Maybe she was dreaming? She couldn't tell. Her friends might not stop by or call because they knew she sometimes worked for hours at a time and often needed solitude, within which to create.

The images got darker. She remembered that rough looking guy in the grocery store parking lot who glared disapprovingly at the bumper sticker on her car. She saw a forest fire coming toward the old growth trees at the end of her street. Hoping to stop the scary movies in her head, she stretched her legs out again, and this time her toes touched the opposite wall. Then she saw thousands of people walking slowly along a dirt road. They arrived at wooden barracks in a place surrounded with barbed wire.

She told her mind to “STOP” but the images kept coming. Pickup trucks flying confederate flags. Libraries burning, the glowing books exploding from the pyre. Parades of people in masks carrying torches. She saw the Handmaids.

Almost automatically, the girl stretched again. But before her arms and legs were even fully extended, they ran into the opposite wall, which was now slowly closing in against her.

Early evening light poured in from the tiny window above. The girl looked up and followed the last ray of the sun which angled through the window and illuminated the door.

She could see the room's name stenciled there.

Fear Room.

On the other side of the door, the house waited, golden and quiet.