The Room
An Account of The Room
At the end of a long hallway lay a small room. The room was like any other within the confines of the hotel— four tight corners, one window, and an overworked bed. The layout of the hotel was such that the room was positioned at the very end of the fifth floor, and the air around it remained dead save for two moments in the day. The first moment was when the sweet smell of food wafted out from under the door at around 9 o’clock; it was typically a pastry (of the French variety, of course), and the scent lingered for at least an hour after the pastry was assumedly consumed. The second time that the air around the door went live was when the door swung open and the tenant inside received a man—the visitor was quickly pulled inside the dark-red coffin, and the surrounding rooms had to deal with the sound of unabashed love-making for the next 30 minutes or so.
It was this second time that I once found myself waylaid. I had been kept at work for longer than expected, and I had just trounced down the hallway towards my own abode; I turned the corner and glanced briefly at the door, expecting to see it closed. Instead, it was flung open, and the woman inhabiting it stood outside impatiently. She cast her gaze upon me and, as if she was awaiting my arrival, grabbed my arm roughly and pulled me into the damp coffin with her. I attempted to explain that I was just trying to get home, but my words fell flat as I gazed at the walls. She dragged me towards the bed, but my eyes were transfixed upon the previously red walls; they shifted from hue to hue, blending from green to blue to red as if it were sick of remaining one color for too long. I glanced at the woman’s face as she crashed upon me, and almost gleaned a multitude of emotions twinkling across her amorphous visage. She had laid me onto the large bed now, and she began tracing her lips along the length of my fatigued body. She undressed as if removing her clothes was second nature to her; I began to fade into the act too, realizing she must be another nymphomanic prostitute desperate for sexual warmth. The cascading colors of the walls fell into my peripheral vision, and I focused only on the fruit that her disgusting Francien body contained, the extremities that would provide me with the orgasmic pleasure that I naturally desire. I do not remember the rest of the night—she merely became another means to pleasure to me, and I only engaged with the content of her Self when I unconsciously critiqued the decadence she lived in. Why should I have cared who she was? She was no different than the baby chickens I eat for breakfast, and she held no value past the sexual use-value her body provided.
I woke up the next morning exhausted, staring up at a deep blue ceiling and an unhappy face. As I blinked rapidly and sat up, she spoke her first unhappy words: “What are you still doing here?”. I looked around the small hovel and snorted—“You pulled me into here.” She looked confused for a moment, and I took it as an opportunity to climb from the bed and sidle towards the door. I stole a glance at her once more and shot her an obnoxious smirk. “This place is disgusting. Why did you drag me into here anyways? You some whore?” Her eyes widened, and she quickly looked down. “W-what?” she murmured, clearly confused about something. I snorted once more, looked straight at her, and laced the final knot in the noose. “I see you bringing men into this disgusting room every day. You must be one of those whores who will sleep with anyone—maybe I’ll come back for some more tomorrow!”. I threw the coffin door aside and marched out like a triumphant hero, smirking at my own humorous statement. I had no idea that it would be the last time I ever saw her door open. Over the next week, I went about my informal routine; Wake up, go to work, come home, and call a random girl to sleep with for the night.
On the 7th day after my colossal victory, I noticed her door slightly ajar as I let out the prostitute I enjoyed the night before. Curiosity seized me, and I tentatively walked over to her door. I attempted to peer into the pitch-black room, but I failed to see anything through the darkness. I sighed and unceremoniously cast open the door—since there was no light, I had to slink into the room carefully. I tip-toed around, grasping at objects like I was feeling along a cave wall, trying to locate where I was as I traveled around the room. Finally, I found the bed, and moved to feel for her within the silky bedsheets. As my arm reached down, it knocked against something solid dangling from the ceiling, and I jumped aside in utter shock. I backed out of the room, then slammed the door shut and gasped for air. I scrambled back into my room, and laid there for an indiscriminate amount of time. The next day I got up and carried out my schedule as usual.
I still have not told anybody what I had done on that day. I certainly killed her with my words, but why should I feel any sympathy? She had chosen her fate when she decided to be a whore, and I had only called attention to what was obvious to anyone else. Those who volunteer themselves to others so freely deserve no sympathy, and they lie at the bottom of humanity with the countless vagabonds and thieves. Such dregs should waste away in the sewers that they lie in. The room, regardless of how enchanting its shimmering colors were, contained naught but an empty suit of skin. Yet now it lies dark, untouched by any hue of emotion.
