An Anonymous Room | Teen Ink

An Anonymous Room

November 9, 2015
By Caroline McCormack SILVER, Wyckoff, New Jersey
Caroline McCormack SILVER, Wyckoff, New Jersey
6 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Rain surged from the clouds outside, pelting the glass windowpanes and removing any memory of sunshine from the summer just passed. The lack of heat left me shivering in the rigid chair clearly purchased for style, not comfort. I had arrived early to my tutoring session, the eager mind of a second grader not yet in my presence. After calling the child’s progenitor was instructed to let myself in with the key hidden under the mat. Upon first glance, the room didn’t seem very welcoming. The faded wooden door perched precariously shut, hanging on the fringe of open or closed. The way the smooth grooves and ridges of the snow colored door pressed against my palm as I peeked inside combined with the sweet scent of cotton candied perfume beckoned me in for a closer look. A gush of air caused by the movement of the entrance sent a chill down my spine. Stepping in, a cool and contained atmosphere greeted me. I viewed curtains locked shut against the outside world and clean white drawers closed tightly, protecting the secrets within and heightening the sense of mystery. At first the coolness of the plain blue walls enveloped me, the mirrors rendered me self conscious and forced me to acknowledge my imperfections. The queen bed felt as a place to escape, one could burrow down into the silk sheets the color of the sky on a winter’s morning and disappear with no consequence. Upon further inspection I noticed the warmth filtering through the curtains throwing images of shattered glass on the fixtures inside. The drawers, what I had seen as tightly shut, now revealed flashes of vibrant clothing strewn inside. The blue didn’t provoke me, but instead calmed me with a kind essence.

Pain was hidden through faded photos taped forlornly on the walls. Tacks were stuck through no named faces. Images of faraway places and beautiful things and people painted a magical aesthetic. Fissures and cracks randomly situated themselves in the ocean paint, grumpy and tired from being so ancient. Textbooks lay strewn in a corner, random papers stuck in between pages creased from nights spent doing assignments. A makeup mirror sat pristine and neat in the left hand corner. Clear acrylic cases were filled and overflowing with products. Maybelline mascaras, Benefit bronzers, liquid eyeliners galore, and shimmery eyeshadows modelled through the translucent cases, begging to be tested and tried. The surface was painted in various hues and shades that had melted onto it, some more faded than others from useless attempts at removal. It was clear from the display that the room’s inhabitant was very private, painting a face every day for the world.

What caught my attention most was the desk. Arrays of colorful books lined the top shelves, color coordinated showcasing a vibrant literature rainbow. Some looked brand new and shining, others faded and worn from beloved reads. A corkboard on the back held more photographs, it featured kindergarteners laughing in their Halloween costumes, than fifth graders at graduation, which blossomed into teenagers all dolled up for their first bat mitzvah. Memories encaptured and enjoyed through images that seemed to transport you back to the time and place. One girl was present in every photo. As a young child, her cheeks glowed and teeth shone with innocence and pure joy. As a tween the smile was still there, but whereas before it was about to explode, now it was reserved and hiding a sense of discomfort. As a teen the smile was gone altogether. Full pink lips pulled back in a smirk or straight face, eyes glittering with emotions undetermined. Time had definitely changed this room, but most important it’s inhabitant.

Suddenly I felt as an intruder in a place where I wasn’t meant to be. From faraway, the room was closed and distant from the world, desperately trying to blend in and hide from attention. Upon closer inspection however the mask was a fail, photos and possessions revealed personal details about the member. Feeling as if I had spent more than my fair share inside, I exited and shut the door to how it once was. I wanted to continue the person’s allusion, even though she may not want to be seen, there was no hiding the beauty peeking through.

The author's comments:

Memoir about a room that describes me.

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