Uncertainty

The room was twisted in that normal sort of way; nostalgic in all the right places, but modern in the most warped sense that it seemed normal. It was tidy, but in a messy way, with panties hidden under the bed, just barely peeking out, cluttered desktop, and an unmade bed. I’d never seen a place so diverse; it was like all the opposites in the universe had combined to make the room. It was musty, and dark but so clean and light feeling that the darkness didn’t feel pervasive. 1

She was an exact copy of her room, and it was hard to figure out if she had created the room, or if it had created her. Watching her lie on the bed was like watching her meld into the very essence of the room; I’d never seen anything like it before, and haven’t since. It was beautiful, but it scared the hell out of me. She giggled when she saw the way I was looking at the place; the sound seemed to penetrate the entire room. 2

‘Wassa matter darlin,’ her voice was muffled, but I heard every word clearly, ‘you look like it’s wretched in here.’ 3

‘... It is,’ I whispered. She didn’t hear me, or pretended like she didn’t, just rolled over and grabbed a book from her beside. I nearly broke out in hysterical laughter when I saw the title, The Long Hard Road Out of Hell. Marilyn Manson’s autobiography. It fit into the room like nothing else could have. That was just how twisted the whole thing appeared to me. 4

I took a more in depth look at the room. I couldn’t pinpoint what was bothering me so much. Such a sick mix of little-girl-innocence and the perverse woman who lay before me, her midriff shirt and mini-skirt so inviting and unappealing at the same time. I sat on the multi-colored carpet, looking up at her on the bed, book held above her as she unconsciously arched her back over the bunched up blankets. Above her hung fairy and moon wind chimes, and glow-in-the-dark stars. Her bedspread was classic ‘goth’, and the bed was like something ripped from the original Grimm Fairy Tales. There was a low growl coming out of the laptop on her desk, renaissance industrial with an evanescent female voice flowing above it. 5

The desk was, as everything else in the room, a perfect representation of what must surely be the distorted assortment inside her. A plastic bead necklace, the kind you get from those quarter machines, lay draped across the open laptop, next to which lay an empty bottle of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum, a packet of Trojans, and an adult pacifier like those found in clubs. 6