Another World Nearby

I've decided to move far away. I don't intend to tell any of my housemates; it's none of their business. I spent a long time weighing my options, oscillating between contradicting feelings about what I wanted to do, because I knew I wasn’t happy but I didn’t want to make an impulsive decision that I would regret. And then, one day, my decision was final.

It was early in the work week and I had several tedious projects to complete. When I set out that morning, I already knew what to expect; a continuous state of rain and darkness at a temperature of 40 degrees fahrenheit throughout the entire day. I spent the entire workday waiting for the workday to be over, and then it was back out into the rain.

I just wanted to go home, and yet, I didn't. I needed to escape from my stress–into a safe, peaceful place–and while home was a safe place, it wasn't necessarily peaceful. I share a home with five other people. It's a three-bedroom house with each bedroom shared by two occupants. The landlord prefers to lease individual beds, with access to common areas, so that tenants won't be dependent on one another to pay rent.

It’s to be expected, at any given time, for any shared space in the home to be dirty and cluttered. Food and dishes are regularly left sitting out and people freely leave their garbage and personal belongings laying around the house. A person could clean up a space if they wanted to use it, but it would usually be wrecked again by the next day. Although I work remotely, buying my own laptop computer would be expensive; and this house, in addition to having a relatively low rent, is close to the public library.

I've struggled with the inability to find space to myself, but housing is expensive and I don’t want to be too reckless with money.

My half of my bedroom is the only place in the house that I can trust to stay clean and undisturbed. There are times that I can just lay on my bed and be alone with my thoughts in the peace and quiet, but these moments don't always come when I need them to. On most days, for most of the day, my roommate will be there doing something–or nothing at all.

Sometimes, when I want to be alone, there are places in the neighborhood with a large rock or tree-root where I like to go and sit. But the rain was heavy, and I was eager to get out of it.

I wasn’t at all surprised to find my roommate reclining on their bed, watching media on a tablet, when I returned to the room. I set my coat aside and sat down at the foot of my bed to rest for a few minutes before I’d begin to put my things away. The loud audio coming from the tablet bothered me enough to ask my roommate not to play the sound out loud, but they protested. I said that I wanted peace and quiet to relax; that the sound was disruptive to me. I knew they owned a pair of earphones and asked that they use them. My roommate indignantly retorted that I couldn’t tell them what to do in their room.

I honestly hadn’t expected anything different. Anytime I asked for their consideration with the use of our shared space, they did what they wanted to do; it didn’t matter how politely I asked, or what case I made for my side of things. But the way they brushed me off, in particular, got under my skin, and I experienced a surge of stress that made it feel like all the muscles in my head were constricting my brain.

I stood up, took my coat, and left the room without closing the door. There was nothing more to be said and I wasn’t about to sit by and tolerate being disrespected. I put my coat back on and went back out into the rain, heading right into the dense woodland behind the house. Petty as I knew it was, I left my unpleasant home environment in favor of an even less pleasant environment, in a symbolic act of protest. Since I had nowhere to sit down, but I didn’t want to go back to the house for a while, I just kept on walking in a straight line.

After 10 to 15 minutes of walking, I already wanted to head back. My coat wasn’t weather resistant, and even with all the surrounding tree-cover, my hair and clothes were already soaking wet. I walked with my head turned down to keep the rain out of my face.

Just when I was about to turn around to leave, my eye was caught by a bright white object on the forest floor, maybe 10 feet in front of me. I looked up to see that it was a trillium flower–just one among an entire patch of beautiful trillium flowers, seeming to glow white against the green foliage. I soon realized that the clearing where this flower patch had grown was not so much a forest clearing, but more like a yard–because I was standing in front of a house.

Even at first glance, this house had an unusual appearance. It was a small, purple cottage, with various colorful wind chimes and other whimsical ornaments hanging from its eaves, railings, and front face. It had no street address posted anywhere, there was no mailbox nearby, and there wasn’t even so much as a cleared pathway leading up to the front door. It looked like an unplanned house, just sitting in the middle of the forest.

I couldn’t imagine who this house must belong to or what it was doing here, isolated in the middle of the woods. I moved a bit closer, trying to look through the single, diamond-shaped window in the center of the door, but all I could see was my reflection. I quickly realized that the window I was looking into was actually a mirror, and a sudden feeling told me who this house belonged to. It was mine. At least in this instance, the house was here for me. Surely enough, as I walked up the stone steps and turned the door handle, I found the house unlocked.

Once I’d entered the house and had a moment to look around, the first place I went was the restroom. I was drenched with cold rainwater and I wanted to get dry. Impressively, I found that the restroom was equipped with a laundry shoot. I’d never seen one in person, and I was glad there’d be no need to pick wet clothes up off the bathroom floor later.

Even more impressive was the shower. It was a large, open space, lined with stone tiles, with a drain in the center of the floor. The shower itself fell in a continuous waterfall–almost like a fountain–and there was a large ceramic bowl sitting in an alcove in the wall. Beautiful, dark green ivy leaves climbed the walls of the shower, and the waterfall had the scent of rainwater. I realized that, somehow, this house was a part of the forest.

I stripped away my frigid, wet clothes, dropped them down the laundry shoot, and stepped under the waterfall. As the hot water poured over my cold skin–running through my hair, over my shoulders, and down my back–electric tingles were sent through my spine, reverberating through my head, limbs, and chest.

I noticed that the bowl, set in the alcove of the shower wall, was filled with a pearly liquid soap. But there was no need for me to reach into the basin, as there was a small spout in the lip of the bowl. I reached up, cupping my hands together under the spout, and the soap instantly ran into my hands. My first thought was that the soap smelled like a meadow, but I soon recognized the scent of lilac trees.

I stepped outside the water for a moment to wash. But, as I began to spread the soap over myself, I realized that it was spreading and lathering all on its own. I needed only to stand in one place with my limbs spread out as the soap washed over me, before stepping back under the warm waterfall.

Clean linens had already been set out on the countertop for me; black thermals with white socks and undergarments, and a large white bath towel. After I’d gotten dried and dressed, the next place I went was the dining room.

I found the dining room table set for one person, with silverware, two covered dishes sitting one in front of the other, and two covered mugs sitting side by side. I removed the cloche from the first dish to find a buttered baked potato, seasoned with pinches of salt, garlic, and black pepper, a cut of grilled, lemon-buttered salmon, and a small stack of buttered, steamed asparagus spears. Uncovering the two mugs, I found that one was a hot cup of chai-spice tea, while the other was a cold cup of vanilla soy milk. As I ate my dinner, I alternated between sips of tea and milk. I then replaced the first dish with the second, removing the cloche to find a hot bowl of vanilla-spice pudding, seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice.

I began to look around at the house as I ate, noticing a distinctive uniformity in its interior design. It occurred to me that the dining room table, as well as the furniture, doors, and floors of the cottage, were all made from pinewood from the surrounding area.

Once I’d finished dinner, I headed straight to bed.

The bedroom was just as ornate as the rest of the house, with pinewood furnishings and dark-green drapery. Interestingly, though, the room seemed to be missing some key features that a bedroom would usually have. At one end of the room was the bed; larger than King-sized, with dark-green plaid bedding and a pinewood frame that was extensively carved with imagery of mountains and evergreen trees. At the opposite end of the room, in a corner, was a vanity mirror, complete with a sink and a large countertop. On the same side of the room, in the opposite corner, was another laundry shoot. Beside the bed was a large window, draped with a valance curtain. However, there wasn’t a closet or dresser, or anything that a person could use to store their belongings.

On the countertop of the vanity, I found a small paper cup of a dark green liquid with a strong scent of mint and cilantro, that I knew must be mouthwash. I was impressed to find that the mouthwash worked in the same way the bath soap had, spreading and washing on its own, and leaving my teeth and tongue as clean as if they’d been scrubbed.

I climbed into the bed, finding it to be exceptionally soft and warm; dressed with velour bedding and set up with a warming pan. I fell asleep to the soft sounds of the rushing brook outside and of chirping crickets, birds, and frogs.

The next morning, I went about my business as usual, only this time with a profound sense of serenity that I wasn’t accustomed to.

The clothes I’d laundered the day before were sitting, clean and folded, on the vanity countertop next to a new cup of mouthwash and a hot, wet washcloth. After I’d gotten clean and dressed, I dropped my bedclothes and the washcloth down the laundry shoot and went back out to the dining room.

I found the dining room table set for one person, with silverware, a covered dish, and a covered mug. Under the cloche was a hot glazed orange-cinnamon roll and a sliced honeycrisp apple, while the mug was filled with hot hazelnut coffee.

After work that day, I headed straight back to the place in the woods where I’d found the cottage. Though I found the same patch of trillium flowers, the cottage was nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t so much as an impression in the forest floor where the house had been, which, honestly, was what I’d expected.

The night I spent in the enchanted cottage is one I’ll never forget, but it gave me something much more valuable than the experience

I’m not going to waste any more time being unhappy.

By now, I’ve informed my landlord that I’m not looking to renew our lease. The current lease is nearly up, and I’ve managed to secure different living arrangements in another part of the state. This rooming house is more expensive, but it’s also larger, well-kept, and tenants have separate rooms. There isn’t a public library nearby, but I’ve resolved to buy a laptop computer.

It is important that I manage my finances carefully and responsibly, but I realize now that my happiness isn’t something that’s worth compromising.