Ciara Bazile

Macabre

I hate this room. It’s drafty with dirty eggshell wallpaper and dark gray granite flooring. The lone rectangular window sits high on the outside wall, allowing only a tiny beam of sunlight. Sometimes I can see people walking. Thick white spider webs float in the corner by the door, some resisted underneath my desk. My rough cotton knitted blanket and brick-like pillow are the only things on my bed. I hear heels clicking down the hall before the echoes of my door unlock. The aroma of cleaning supplies quickly fills my 10x10 room as my door swings open. She walks into my room and immediately sits at my desk.