A work in progress

A room now abandoned

His room was always damp and cold, a small wet box that smelled of mildew and liquor seeping out of pores. The single pillow on his fading futon was always moist due to its proximity to the drafty corner window. The floors were stripped and unfinished, the walls had been painted a deep red and were plastered with withering rock posters. An enormous seemingly ancient computer monitor sat on a table and blank CDs could be found piled high on every surface. An acoustic guitar lay in the corner and a few dozen records sat in a milk crate on the floor. One of Scott’s favorite t-shirts lie on the ground, it was black and faded with red stitches where she had sewn up its holes. It was a well-loved object, and had experienced its fair share of wear and tear.

After Scott was gone she had often wondered what had become of it; longed to have it in her possession to remember him by, but always hesitated to try and retrieve it. So the whereabouts of the black t-shirt with its red zigzagging scars remained a mystery, always would remain a mystery. She never felt at home in the dank room with its little furniture and complete lack of warmth. Often she would fall asleep on that frigid futon only to wake in the middle of night to Scott’s loud persistent snores. She’d slip on her clothes, tiptoe through the hall and out the screen door into the misty early morning dew.

The room like their relationship presented conflicting emotions. She loved him enough to put up with the smelly, damp room but not enough to stay through the night with the constant vibration of his innumerable snores. She cared about him enough to take pleasure in mending his favorite t-shirt, but not enough to call him her own.

When she had received the call, that fateful Halloween, her mind wandered into the oppressive room on South “K” st. Her memory touched the surfaces of the room retracing the past and recalling the nights they’d shared as tangled sleeping corpses on that cold navy blue futon. Though she had often longed to escape that room and untangle her limbs and life from him once and for all, she found no relief in the news. Instead she felt a sorrow and nostalgia that left her sinking in despair. Her pockets spilled with a myriad of memories, memories that scattered, fluttered, and dissolved with nowhere to perch or settle. These memories leaked out of her eyes for weeks, tortured her in her dreams, and smothered her heart. She replayed old memories over and over in her mind- the two of them sleeping outside side by side under the gleaming stars in the Cuyama desert, wrestling on the wet grass of his parent's front lawn on Christmas Eve. She could smell his damp pillow in her own pillow wet with tears. More than anything she longed to hear his voice, his hysterical laugh; the way he said her name. All she wanted was to hear him say her name.