Jasmine Sylvester

The Pink Room

It was night during mid-day.

The glittery, slick curtains gleamed like menacing grins in the harsh sun rays of late June. The rays bore through the holes of shredded pink fabric, crying diamonds on the opposite, scarred, baby pink wall.

Silently, slowly, more bits of sun manifested through the smeared windows, and the dazzling drapes slouched hazardously, illuminating a silhouette.

The carnation pink and white canopy bed was unmade and ghastly even in the natural light. Its double mattress spilled off the box spring, splayed in separate directions like spread legs. Vulnerable, as the lone figure to the overpowering pink.

Its teeth visible through a box of king-sized black and blue sharpies. He was black and blue too. The relieved vessels of the permanent markers littered the light hardwood floor like vermin. The pink walls bled their ink.

The oval, woven, pastel rug clung to the sides of the hot pink trash can that read "Hot trash" in a dark corner. Hot indeed, he was roasting and perspiring under the sun's prolonged stay, the plastic drapes slouched more severely like sludge.

The magenta office chair was overturned in a far corner and the matching desk was clear in contrast to the pile of what used to be its contents at its uneven legs. Claw marks in the pink-purple wood forever documenting the wild sweeping motion that scarred it.

A carpet of broken glass from various dirty dishes and mugs stained his translucent feet crimson.

The pink room was untidy.

At the door sat the figure, unmoving. Head between legs and hands clamped to calves. Before this person laid a cheap, plastic, hand-held mirror.

In it, we saw a girl.

The room was no longer simply a pink room but a warden for sobs. He whispered to himself. "Why am I this way?"

Even after witnessing such a scene, the sun could only be.

After all the world is but the eye of the beholder.