The wall sparkles with Christmas lights too eager to wait three months. Vanilla floats through the air, curling the edges of the posters littering the white, plaster walls. Cheap blue carpet crunches with added pressure, and the bed looks inviting. A heavy down comforter lays like a blue slug atop the memory foam mattress. If only the slug would open its mouth and swallow you up, then you’d be happy. The switch flicks the light on, the lamp beside the bed. A soft glow hardly illuminates the room, casting about a warm caramel hue, in contrast with the cool air blowing from the air conditioner, like ice cream. You slip your tongue out of your mouth, looking for the sweet taste of sundae syrup. It’s practically there. It’s a comfortable room, you think. You could live here, you say aloud. Voices echo outside, shouting happy exclamations about class and sports and all those things separate from you and this room. A painting of a dancer before a brown backdrop hangs above the bed. She reaches up her arms, tilting her head back. She has no face.
A wooden desk sits at the opposite wall, bare with the exception of a white Apple computer. You pull the purple rolling chair from its home under the desk, and sit down. Smiling, you open up your computer and begin to type.
200 years pass.
You cough out the dust from your mouth. This place hasn’t been lived in for years, you think to yourself. Small particles of dirt and dust cover every inch of the room. Well, it’s not really a room. It’s more of a three-sided cave. The fourth wall opens to a barren field, surrounded by other white broken down buildings. The place is desolate. You tread carefully into the room, vigilant for broken glass or important items. The tip of something blue sticks out from the dust mud. It’s drowning. You pull on it, unsettling more dust that makes you cough. You shake away the age, and find a ratted-out, old comforter. All the feathers have come out, leaving it limp and lifeless. It’s dead, like everything else here, you think. The air smells of old age, and decay. Green mold grows in the corners of the wall and ceiling. Sunlight streams into the room, scaring away the shadows. It’s a welcome glow, like caramel, choked by dust. If only you could taste it. You plummet your hand into a mountain of dead wood, and rusty medal. Holding up the object buried beneath the folds of time, you blow your hot breath against it. Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. It’s old, after all.
She has no mouth, this girl looking at you now. She has no nose, no eyes, no ears, nor wrinkles. She is obviously young. She has arms, which she lifts above her head with grace. Chocolate runs down the painting in streaks, mixing into her pale white face. You wipe away the remaining dust, and stare at it a while. So light for something so old. Suddenly, you know it’s time to leave. You look back at the room one last time, taste the air, cough, then close the door with the no-faced girl tucked under your arm.