Eighteen

Four White Walls

CHAPTER TWO

The shade of white that coated the drywall was nauseating. I was grateful, of course. These four white walls gave me an option when I thought I didn't have any.

But at this point, I was convinced they were getting closer, moving so inconspicuously until they were finally able to swallow me whole.

If I was being honest, my paranoia might have been driven by the high. Or maybe it was the clutter.

I hadn't found the inspiration in the last few days to pick my clothes up off the floor—or tuck my scattered belongings back into their assigned places.

All I could think about was how the mirror had been lying to me. Lately, my reflection was unfamiliar. I didn't know who the stranger staring back at me was.

I watched her through the thin white stream that lingered in the air. She moved when I did. We shared similar features. But I didn't know her.

My lungs felt full. Not with oxygen, but smoke. I chased the flames with a pink liquid from a crinkled water bottle. It burned as it went down.

There was an impressive shelf life on liquor. I couldn't remember how many weeks had passed since I stole a sample of strawberry vodka from that party, and yet it was still somehow refreshing.

The fire was gone, and my priorities felt straightened out. Although it hadn't touched the stiff expression on my face. It gave me a fragile appearance, I thought. Like pieces of myself might actually break off if I did as much as smile.

I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't trust the walls. I couldn't trust the mirror. So I pushed myself away from the desk, the legs of the wooden chair screeching against the floorboards, and glided across the room.

I didn't have to think about which items were dispersed where on the ground, my subconscious had become accustomed to the routine. The sun was waiting for me in the hallway, its light clinging to the yellow wallpaper that lined the walls.

Before now, I had never lived in a place like this. There were no exceptions in terms of luxury, even the refrigerator had a shine to it. It was the ideal white picket fence house.

But that's all it was, a house. I could feel the life that was missing as I moved from room to room. It felt like a museum—everything on display, nothing to be touched.

And it was so quiet. "Lydia!" My voice cut through the silence like the blade of a knife.

I didn't know that such peace existed. Or that countertops could sparkle. Or that there were neighborhoods untroubled by crime.

My mind wandered with these thoughts as I twisted the silver knob to the basement, and I struggled to find the right answer. Was luxury truly worth the absence of such a crucial man made force—home.

Maybe there were no right answers. "Hey, do you know where my—" When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I quickly realized I stood alone in the large, furnished basement. But that was not the reason behind the look of horror on my face.

I was wrong in my previous assumption. The house did offer one exception.

Garbage littered the room like streams of confetti. Half eaten meals stuck to plates in different states of decay. And to my own dismay, certain sections of the linoleum were coated in a strange substance that made my feet stick to the ground that I stood on.

The soles of my feet were unable to shake the sticky feeling even as I walked across the room. But I did my best to ignore the discomfort as I reached down to grab a singular black high heel.

I was at a disadvantage. There was so much mess and only one of me. Looking for the matching pair was like finding a needle in the world's messiest haystack.

I figured I'd try my luck beneath the entire wardrobe of clothing that was piled onto the futon. But since I've never considered myself to be a particularly lucky person, I couldn't even be surprised when I came up empty handed.

My chest was losing the battle to impatience and
frustration as I got on my knees to search underneath. And to my own disbelief, it seemed that my luck had turned.

The shoe was there, lying between dust bunnies and lost coins. But nothing could ever be that easy. I strained the entirety of my right arm beneath the couch, and still couldn't reach it.

On my second attempt, I almost had it. That was until a car horn broke through both the silence and my concentration. "Jesus Christ." Now it was just mocking me.

I took a breath before shoving my arm under one more time, forcing the very tips of my fingers around the heels thin strap. The horn sounded again as I pulled myself out, and suddenly fastening the shoe around my ankle was impossible.

After struggling with the strap for longer than what should've been necessary, I couldn't convince myself that putting the other one on was worth the trouble. So I headed for the stairs.

The heel clinked against the linoleum, while my bare foot attempted to keep up. I carried the noise with me as I migrated through the house, the sound altering slightly with each change in surface; thicker against the living rooms hardwood but sharper as I reached the hallways concrete.

I could hear the ringing before I even reached the doorway, its obnoxious wailing forcing me to the edge of my bed. "Sorry. I'm coming right now."

I said, phone in one hand, matching shoe in the other. I didn't have to guess who was calling, or what they wanted. Being on time didn't fall into my particular set of skills.

With that, the phone went dead. I returned it to its place among my unmade sheets before moving to conceal all incriminating evidence against me—my biggest co-conspirator being the full ashtray sitting on top of my desk.

Usually I gravitated towards more creative hiding places. But with my options limited, I was stuck settling for the dresser. My mismatched socks and wrinkled t-shirts fought me in sharing the space. It took every ounce of strength and a few deep breaths to get the top drawer shut again.

As for the final piece of evidence, I decided a suffocating amount of fresh Hawaiian breeze would be enough to sort out the smell.

With almost everything in order, it felt like the right time to finally clothe my naked foot. I straightened out the lace fabric of my white dress as I stood up from the ground.

The mirror crossed my mind again. I thought about getting one last glance at myself before leaving. But I knew my reflection would continue to lie to me.

It felt like weights were pulling at my feet as I dragged myself towards the closet door.

Immediately, I could feel its eyes on me, and even though it was in poor taste to waste time I didn't have, I stared back for a moment.

My death suit hung with pride, despite the melancholy mood swirling in the air. The hesitation I felt boiled my skin to a fever. And yet, I reached out my arm and removed it from the hanger, knowing that everything was already decided.

There were nerves intertwined in the sigh that left my mouth. Or maybe it was sorrow. I shut the closet door behind me and waited for the world to end. Or for time to stop ticking. Or to wake up from this nightmare.

Unfortunately, nothing of the sort happened. I was still here, encased between four nauseating white walls, with a graduation gown in my hand.

Eighteen © Wordstothewise ™ 2024