A Letter From The Four Walls And One Window

Dear _____,

There is no door. There are only four desolate concrete walls and planted on the mid-level of the right chipped wall is one putrid dirt-yellow glass window, layered with dusty brittle Venetian blinds.

During the day, the blinds are pulled up, letting the sun beat down in the room where the ground is not made of concrete; instead, it's layered with a thick clear plastic tarp, hovering above ground level, coating all corners like a bedsheet. It’s too muggy to see what's underneath and when the tarp forms unbearable steam you’ll see the stains of sweaty handprints and dried-up smeared tears scribbled across the seared plastic.

When the sun retires with a belly full, the night's breeze dissolves the window’s dijon mustard-like glass, as the crusted Venetian blinds shrivel up into dry curled twigs. Gray ice-cold winds scream paralyzing clamoring sounds. Whistling its call only on its bluest nights. The noise unhinges its company, arraying as a message of an angel. An ensemble of hope ballets around them, and their eyes watch it sail in and out of the room.

You see, this place desires to show its company horrid visions with each blink and breath taken. This place craves to re-live pain...

a little girl is curled into a ball with fresh branding scars all over her body, sitting inside a motel damp bathtub, naked and lathered in her crimson skin. Her nappy hair is chained to the tub spout. Her body and limbs scramble as she screeches out from the struggle.

craving you to feel each muscle tug and keen hair pluck.

She vigorously tears apart her own scalp, with merely one thread of her skin holding the rest of her skinned hair. Her bloody scalp dangles down next to her hip as she straggles out of the tub. She cries in brown tears, thick as lard, and falls on the opal bathroom tile making her bones sharpen and thin. Slowly impaling her from within to outside of her skin.

This becomes your story now. It was cloned just for you. This room—I'm sorry, your home. Your home will always be inescapable. It will actively work against you.

In here, pain and hate will generate emotional bacteria, and in time there will be an infestation of moldy rocky mountains, scattered throughout your limbs. Growing stronger in density with every breath, mildew will erupt from your stone skin, and generate an air of helplessness.

Here, four forsaken concrete walls and a grainy glass window with rusted Venetian blinds await a purgatory just for you.

Not because you deserve it, but because the tortured soul needs a forever wounded companion to permanently incite their forgotten stories.

Sincerely waiting and eager for your arrival,