The Little Room

I pushed the key into the keyhole and gave it a turn. It caught like it didn’t want to completely unlock the gears. After a jiggle of the knob and a slight kick at the bottom of the door, the lock finally gave in. The door creaked and groaned as if it were an old man trying to get out of a chair. The room held the musty smell of forgottenness but deep down it held more. I sucked in a breath and instantly regretted it. The air was heavy and had a film that seemed to coat everything including my lungs. I instantly started coughing. A single window filthy from the years of abandonment let in the dingiest amount of light. I instinctively reached for the light switch. A yellow bulb flickered casting shadows around the room. They seemed to taunt me, reminding me of the secrets they held. Part of me wanted to turn back, but the other part of me needed to go in. Realistically, the room was about the size of a large closet but there was furniture lined up along every wall. I had to step to the side to squeeze through to get to the dresser. Dust clung to every inch of the room. The once pink wallpaper with the red roses was now yellowing and ripped in some places. The antique bed frame and matching dresser were dingy grey. I pulled open the first drawer to the dresser. It squealed with protest. Of course, it was full. My grandmother never threw anything away. I groaned because this day was getting longer. The one document I was looking for was going to be buried in the room of secrets and I was going to spend more time than I wanted here. I tentatively reached into the stack of unknown mysteries as if something would grab my hand and pull me into the dresser. I told myself that I was being absurd. Gently, I pulled out each sheet of paper and every worn and faded photograph. Most people would have a sense of nostalgia, but I held the feeling of uneasiness. It seemed like time had stopped moving. I looked at my watch but only five minutes had passed since entering the room. It felt like an eternity, and the longer I was in the room, the more I felt like it was sucking the life out of me. Each breath was becoming harder to take. Maybe I should go out and come back a little bit later, but deep down I knew that I wouldn’t ever come back in this room. I made my way through the second drawer. This one held a couple of table clothes or sheets. I wasn’t sure, and the dim light was making it hard to distinguish what they were. I found a few books that had seen better days sometime in the 1800’s. I gently shook them open hoping that they wouldn’t disintegrate. By the time I made it through the third drawer, I was starting to feel hopeless. The room was shrinking in on me, the shadows growing menacingly, and the air had less oxygen. In the bottom drawer, there were more papers, but it was the folder that wasn’t as faded as the rest that caught my eye. I pulled it out and opened it up. Inside was the paper. The paper that said who my true parents were. I had grown up at grandma’s house knowing that I wasn’t part of the family, even though she insisted that I was. She had told me stories of how my parents had lived, and the tragic story of how they died. I’d been young and believed her, but deep down I knew it wasn’t true. The truth was in my hands. Grandma had adopted me from a shelter after my mother was a runaway. Would this knowledge change my decision? If I pursued my journey, would I end up hurting myself more? Sometimes ignorance is bliss and knowledge is a disease. If I found my true family, would they know more about my curse? Or would they turn a blind eye like everyone else? If they were even still alive, of course. After a minute of holding my breath, I realized that I was still in this room where the walls seemed to reach for me. I held onto the piece of paper as if it were gold as I slowly made my way to the door. The floor creaked as I moved reminding me that this was a room that had been forgotten and for good reason.