Room 421: The Death

Room 421: The death1

“Death was on her mind all summer”2

From The many lives of Marilyn Monroe by Sarah Churchwell3

In late summer, when autumn first began to press its lips against her ear, and whispered rustling leaves to her, she checked in, with the intention of killing herself.4

She had checked in with the name Ophelia Jones, laughing internally at the absurdity of this pseudonym. ‘Ophelia’, because she had always felt an affinity with this character, and ‘Jones’ because it seemed amusing to juxtapose such an elaborate name with such a plain one. And hell, she had given herself 24 hours in which to live, she could do whatever she wanted.5

And she picked up her key; room 421. She planned to spend her last day lost in thought. Throwing her heavy bags down (in retrospect, she did not know why she had packed so much), she flopped on the bed. She felt an eerie sense of calm, of elation.6

She must have slept for several hours. When she woke, the sun was spitting out its last rays into the deep blue pool of the sky. She realised that there is a balcony outside the room, and she stepped out. She smelt petrol in the air, like a suspicious mother sniffing smoke on her daughter’s clothes after a night out. 7

She had listened to music on the way up. She had listened to it on her discman; her one concession to modern culture. The line of one of the songs rattled round and round her head: “La seule solution, c’etait mourir.” The only solution was to die. 8

With some horror, she realised she was waiting. All her life she had been waiting. Waiting for the school bus, waiting for her mother to pick her up, waiting in queues, waiting in silence, waiting in rain. She told herself this, that she must stop waiting. She was not afraid of death, but she was afraid to die. The pain and the echoing silence of death slipped into her nightmares, poisoning her dreams with an inky blackness.9

Why was she doing this, she questioned herself. Surely she had so much to live for. She had never had the traumatic life of some, she was not involved in drugs. It was something else. Some innate sense of closeness with death. She was a dancer, she flew through lush gardens of green, with vivid flowers cascading through the air. Death moved, just in front of her, just out of reach. She kept reaching her hand out, trying to touch, to get just one step closer. La seule solution, c’etait mourir. 10

The garden began to collapse around her, hedges burning down, flowers wilting. Soon only the blue, blue sky remained, and as she looked up, she thought she might fall in.  11

She wakes, fragments of the dream clutching at her, and she begins to cry. This is because she hates waking in the dark, hates the way night feels endless. She thinks about what an absurd charade society puts on about sleep. She never used to sleep. Why now, when soon she will be asleep forever?12

Her mind was crowded, and she began to think about her childhood. Her big white clapboard house. The garden, where death now plays. She thought about her room, lying on her bed. The window open, a breeze lifting the corners of her posters, trailing strands of her hair against her face. She wondered how that child could possibly be here, drifting like a phantom in this hotel, somewhere between the floor and the ceiling. 13

She ignored the fact that she was a little dizzy, a little shot to pieces, a little insane. She realised she should call her parents, and tell them she was alright. Then, remembering her fate, she began to float again.14

Waking once more, clarity settled on her like dew. She was not going to do this. There was no reason to kill herself. She loved her parents, she loved her apartment, she loved her life. She would find herself a shrink, get sorted out. She couldn’t really remember why she had come here in the first place, with a bag full of chemicals. 15

She needed to get herself a job, a boyfriend, and a cat. She would be happy again. It was time to let go of the past summer. Everyone went a little crazy in a summer as hot as that. She gathered her shoes and her thoughts, and went to the bathroom to freshen up.16

They found her the next morning, doing their cleaning round of the hotel. There had been no answer, and no ‘do not disturb’ sign on her door. When they opened the bathroom door, there she was, resplendent as Ophelia, in her white walled tomb. They knew as much as she did about why this had happened.17