My Special Room

Part 4

"What just happened?" I asked, unbelieving. A dark, menacing feel came from the forest. I walked, slowly, towards the forest, but stopped at the edge, unable to move myself forward any further. I knew this forest; I had made it. It was a representation of the darkness inside myself. All of my regrets, my wrong-doings, my fears. And then I had created a barrier around it all, to keep myself safe.

Suddenly, I was hyper-aware that my friend was seeing this. I felt like a stranger, suddenly barging in on a precious and pure room, and dirtying it with my darkness. Despite having shared everything with him in the past, I did not want him to see how far I had fallen when we had only just met again. I didn't think I could bare having him feel disappointed in what I had become.

I had crumpled to the floor, my head hanging in shame. What was I going to do? How could I explain this to him? It's all over now. Tears filled my eyes. I wanted to pity myself. What a terrible person I was. All that I've done, I can't fix it. I've messed up so much, how can I ever not mess up again? Just the presence of the darkness from the forest was thick, cold, and heavy, weighing me down, seeping into the depths of my bones and chilling my core.

I heard his footsteps stop next to me. Afraid, I looked away from him. He said nothing, but he gently touched my head. His hand was big now, nothing like the hands I remembered. And they were warm; their warmth dispersed the darkness that was weighing my head down. More tears spilled over, pouring down my cheeks with the sudden wave of emotion. When his hand left my head, I looked toward him. I could only see his back. He was tall now, and walked bare foot. He had started through the forest. My tears continued and my sobs racked my body. I wanted to call to him. No, please. Don't go in there. But I could not speak. All I could do was cry. Cry, and cry, like a lost child.

I wasn't sure how my darkness would manifest itself in the forest, but it would surely make itself known to him, hiding nothing. The sound of cracking told me my friend was coming back. When he came into view, I could see his body covered in wounds, his clothes torn, and his feet bloody. In one of his cut hands he held a plain book. It's many pages were full of photos and writings. The arm that held the book seemed particularly damaged, as if the forest had attacked him. As my friend stepped out of the forest, it's growth reversed, leaving an undamaged wall and the old wardrobe.

My eyes were like rivers as more tears flowed from my eyes while I looked at all of his injuries. Why would he do something like this? What did he hope to accomplish by getting himself hurt? I cried even as he let me dress his wounds. The most pressing wound was the deep, gash in his side. Vaguely, I wondered what could have given him such a wound. My friend never let go of the book, even while I bandaged his hands.