The Room
Gabriel Wagstaff, Southern Connecticut State University
Artist Statement: Could the best part of a mystery be the possibilities it offers? Could solving a mystery be awful because it eliminates all of the possibilities that stood before? Maybe the people who philosophize wildly and talk in circles do so because finding a definitive solution would ruin all the fun. But to others, mysteries mean something evil lurking in the dark, an unsolvable problem is a boogyman. To both of these people, a mystery is best left speculated about but unanswered. “The Room” explores the relationship between these two people, fear and excitement driving them both to do the same thing: nothing.
There is a room in my house that is hidden by a locked door. I don’t have the key. No one does.
My sister has asked my mom to hire a locksmith or carpenter, call the FBI to bust it down, even use a chainsaw to cut it open herself, but she always says no. It’s not worth the time or money, and we have plenty of space without the extra room.
My sister has dropped down to the floor and tried to see… shapes… colors… light… anything… but she tells me there is only thick darkness. Darkness so matte and dense that she imagines it would be cold and liquid in her hands, like swamp water. I wonder what creatures live in that swamp. An anaconda, alligator, snapping turtle?
I wake up in cold sweats with my dreams spilling out into reality - I have only four fingers on my hand, until the turtle spits it back up. I press each one around a lukewarm glass of water, and drink. I gulp it down to calm my nerves and hope a marsh monster is not next.
My dad says there’s nothing in the room.
“Maybe a couple boxes of junk they forgot to take when they sold the place,” he shakes his head, “you don’t need to get so riled up about it.”
My sister places her ear to the door and sits cross legged on the hardwood. Her shoulder slouches against the wall and she glares at anyone who makes too much noise when walking by. She sits for hours. I bring her cushions to sit on and soda to drink, and will sometimes lay beside her, reading. She gets lost in her imaginary worlds, and I get lost in mine.
After a long day of listening, her favorite thing to do is talk. She sits on the corner of my bed and recounts each muffled groan and scuffle, most of which I suspect were coming from the pipes in the walls. She lays out her theories. The room is filled with notebooks full of lost family recipes, now half-eaten by confused mice who could still smell the old kitchen musk on them. The room has wardrobes and mannequins with original designs by the previous owner, from wedding gowns to sun hats, prom dresses to aprons. She heard the flutter of a hungry moth, but thinks we can still salvage the best ones if we act fast. The room is a completely intact child’s bedroom with books and toys for someone just like her. There was a song coming from the room that must’ve been a robotic doll that hadn’t yet lost its charge. The room is filled with treasure.
She tells me she thinks we’re lucky.
“Other kids at school know every inch of their houses, that’s so boring!”
I look at her with my eyes narrowed and my chin tilted to the left.
“You know what we have?” She leans forward. “A mystery.”
I envision boxes marked “special memories” full of sepia-toned family photos, graduation tassels, and middle school basketball trophies. I imagine the owners pulling out of the driveway for the last time, their car packed with dishes and bedsheets. I guess those boxes didn’t mean as much as they thought. I envision a desk surrounded by mounds of paper, notices from the bank, rejection letters from investors, plans with red pen all over. I see a room full of ghosts. They moan and sway but are contained by that locked door.
My sister conspires with herself, thinking of ways to get that door unlocked. I’ve watched her unravel paperclips and carefully insert them into the lock… twisting… jigging… rustling… and eventually jamming them around violently until they snap and fall to the floor. She slides pieces of paper underneath the doorway, hoping the white surfaces will shine through, but they are swallowed by the darkness. I handed her a flashlight once, thinking she could get another step closer to solving her favorite mystery, but she turned away from me and put her ear to the door.
“That’s cheating.”
She told me I could use it myself, but she couldn’t get involved. I returned the flashlight to the garage. I didn’t want to see what was in that room. I don’t want to see what’s in that room. There are too many terrible possibilities. She doesn’t want to see what’s in that room either. There are too many wonderful possibilities.
It’s been almost two years since we moved into this house, and I’m starting to think she has no plans of ever really unlocking that door.
Kommentarer