Sophie's Room

Sophie had to write a one page double spaced paper about her room. I told here I'd do it for her, but I guess she liked her version better. The following is an example of why you don't let me do your homework for you.



My Room:
The witch comes here at night. I’ve never figured out why, but I always supposed it was the shade of green on my walls—a toxic green. It’s the sort of green that you only find in nature when squash certain bugs. A shade of green that that is only slightly more vibrant than that color that can only be described as glow in the dark.

I remember the day I picked out that paint color: a wall of paint chips, a tidal wave of color, the visual definition of overwhelming. I was lost, eyes darting, seeking refuge somewhere—eyes praying for a place to rest, and when they found their solace, it was on a color that was anything but tranquil. Springy, youthful, pussy green.

She stares at the walls when she comes, that witch, and I…

… well, I stay in my bed, wedged into a little alcove, and burry myself under a blanket of flowers. On either side of me, a feel the threat of what might lurk in either closet. A wise witch never comes without backup. Never. I peer from under my blanket, steeling light from the aquarium that rests on the piano across from me. The Piano wedged between two portrait windows, is not feeling lonely tonight. Her Highness has taken residence on the piano bench, fingers resting silently on the piano keys, drawing life and absorbing every sound they dare not make. Even they are intimidated in her presence.

It howls on my left. In truth I know it is just the wind sneaking into my closet through my crack in the wall, but in her presence it seams like something more, and I don’t like it.

I turn my face away, and peak at the door on the right. Squeaky, obnoxious door. To it’s left I see my tall white dresser: drawers all in various phases of open, creating a perfect stairway to the top, for any small animal who might wish to burrow in the piles of junk atop the dresser— Ideal summit vacation, or so I’ve heard

The witch is staring out the window now, the one to the left of the piano. The one on the right offers no such view, it’s concealed by a new desk, complete with dry erase boards and magazine drawers. I will become a great writer here one day, assuming I stop eating my pencils. But, for now, I neither write nor eat pencils. I only hide beneath my blanket and stare at the toxic green walls.