“Oh, Harold, darling! Look at her, peacefully sleeping like a baby!” one flowery wall beams.

            “Margaret, please. Don’t pretend you don’t know that she’s a fuck-up. Stop treating her like a giant baby!” the opposite wall shoots back.

            As the two start bicker, all hell breaks loose between them.

            The remaining two walls of the bedroom had better things to do than constantly bicker. Like today, the windowed wall wanted to show the girl in the room how beautiful it was outside so she would stop worrying so much for a moment. The wall with the door wanted to show her the immeasurable amount of options she had outside of this cozy little room.

            “Do you think she’ll want to look if a bird passes by? What if I made an entire Disney scene happen? Do you think she’ll notice? Oh! Eugene Montgomery Richards the III, this isn’t the time to be sleeping!” the windowed wall screams.

            “Okay, first of all, it’s George Francis Richmond the XIII. SECOND OF ALL, STOP YELLING AT ME, I KNOW! GODDAMN IT, HELEN!” the wall with the door responds.

            “I’m trying to show her all the of things she could be doing out there instead of being in this room all the time! She keeps closing me, but I’m still trying….”

            The girl wakes up and groggily rubs her eyes. She sits up, blinks, and checks the time on her phone with one eye open.

            The walls hold their words for a moment and silently observe the girl. She yawns and flops back down onto the bed and sleeps some more.

            All the bickering returns with full gusto and no wall is getting anywhere. Insults are flying, nonsense is brewing, the whole room gets louder and louder until finally, the girl opens her eyes again.

            And then the walls shut up.

            Her brows furrow and she rubs her face, hoping it will wake her up. Sleep doesn’t come to her easily. There are times when she ends up taking a nap right after coming home or goes to sleep earlier than she’s used to and wakes up in the late a.m., wondering why the hell she’s up. Other times, she stays up until 2 or 3 in the morning and the alarm wakes her up at 5:30.

            Sleep is not a constant.

            Once she is out of the room, the walls make bets on how her day is going to go.

            “She’s going to screw something up today for sure!” Harold says with certainty.

            “She’ll talk to that lovely person she likes!” Margaret chimes in enthusiastically.

            “The birds will sing with her today,” Helen says.

            “A whole new world of possibilities will open up to her today,” George declares. “But only if she lets herself see them….”

            And so the day begins.

 

            To be honest though, if my walls could talk, they’d have a bunch of opinions on my actions and it’d be a gigantic mess because they’d never shut the hell up even if I tried my hardest to make them disappear. They’d tell me of all my mistakes and everything that I’ve already figured out for myself, how I should be doing more with my life, et cetera, et cetera.

            Imagine yourself in a dimly lit room. The only light is coming from the swinging light bulb that’s over your head. You’re sitting on a wooden chair.

            Just like the movies.

           “It’s a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing, flowers are blooming. On days like these, kids like you … should be burning in hell.”

            They’d totally use that quote against me, man. It’s from the game Undertale and they’d treat me like I’d just killed their brother. They’re gonna close me in and tell me I’m going to have a bad time.

           “Brother killer.”

            I’d have to sit with earbuds in all the time and block out the noise of constant talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking.

            Hey, do you want some abandoned quiche, Narrator? You need a break don’t you, let me continue for you, hahaha!

 

            You awaken, sweat soaking your bed. What the fuck?

            You obviously pulled a cliché move and woke up from a dream. This is about as awful as it gets, hmmm? Please tell me you weren’t wearing green. Green is not a creative colour.

            Blood runs down the walls and covers the floor with crimson. The whole room is now red and you feel a drop of blood hit your face and it startles you. You see a bunch of strange creatures dancing around you in a weird, spazzing fashion. Nothing weirder than that, right?

            Nope.

            The room begins to melt and change.

            Kitchen, bathroom, living room, bedroom, basement, cellar. Repeat. Blood, more blood. Where did all this blood come from? Why is this turning so dark? I don’t know, what’s wrong with you? This room is perfectly fine. HA.

            Hi, honey. It’s your mother … I’m a little worried about you. You’ve been a little out of it recently and I wanted to make sure you were feeling okay. I made you your favourite meal! I hope you li—.

            Oh, no. No more blood….

            It’s overflowing and you feel the thick heavy liquid fill every orifice and it consumes you entirely. Everything is red and it isn’t even about love anymore, it’s about pain because there is no space in your lungs for air. Just blood.

            Why is there so much blood?!

            You fall and hit the concrete floor with a heavy thud.

            Oh look, it’s the same dimly lit room as before. There’s a constant squeaking noise but you can’t quite pin it down as to where it is, and shit, it’s annoying.

            Where’s the WD40, seriously. Like, oh my god.

             The sound of an alarm now fills in for the squeaking and slowly you come to in your cozy little room with its flowery walls that stare back at you silently. Hmmm.

            You move a little and it doesn’t feel right.

            Ah, fuck.

            You’re on your period.