A Room on Its Own

The reflection staring back at me is a snapshot– a moment petrified in time, the subject never fulfilling its purpose or reaching its destination. My limbs remain stiff in their place. The dripping water from the bathtub faucet whispers either sweet nothings or evil threats at me, I can’t tell, but it’s my only companion in the dimly lit bathroom, so I appreciate its company.

I can hear your breathing from the other side of the door. It’s heavy, panting, and I can tell you’re trying quiet the beating of your heart, which I can also hear through the bathroom door.

You’re waiting. You call my name.

“Is everything alright in there?” Your voice is hoarse but sweet, and goosebumps gather

from the peach fuzz on the nape of my neck down to the small of my back.

“Yeah,” the image looking back at me musters. The mouth moves automatically,

disconnected. It stares back at me, pale, with deep eye pockets and a green vein trailing down its forehead. It’s only wearing its underwear and its hair is tangled, and the cold tile feels sharp on its feet.

Your impatience is thick, but I stay in my spot. You are nothing right now, just a distant voice behind a wall, an imperceptible presence with warm, invisible hands around my waist and lips pressed against my neck.

“Why won’t you come out?” I hear your voice beckon. There is sadness and disappointment hidden in the crevices of your inflection, and I hold back the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.

You don’t understand that I am stuck here, that the room I am in is its own, and if I open the door expecting to fall into your arms, I will only be met with deep, dark black space. The wires and pipes will protrude out of the ripped foundation and dangle in the abyss surrounding me, and you will not be there.

There are other voices bellowing for me in the darkness; yours does not stand alone. Their voices do not have the same genuineness, their mouths drip with syrupy sweet promises that turn out to be cyanide. Yours tastes like marijuana and M&M’s, but I can’t be too sure that it isn’t also a lie. There could be arsenic hidden in between your teeth.

I hear a sniffle from the other side of the door. Is that you?

“...Are you okay?” I’m the one to speak from my side now. My curiosity moves me from my spot. I press my ear flat against the door.

“I wish you would come out,” you say. Your voice is small, fluttering with defeat. Won’t you understand? I want so badly to open the door, but I can’t. If I open the door, arms will stretch out of the darkness and pull me in. The surrounding black will engulf me so deeply that I won’t know if I’ve lost my sight or if I’m just staring at the darkness. I’d much rather lock eyes with the person currently staring at me through the mirror with the bony chest and permanent expression of disgust. I’d rather just sit on the dingy bath rug for comfort until you finally give up and leave. It’s easier that way, so you don’t have to try and find me, your hand swiping the space looking for mine, because there’s no guarantee that our fingers will touch.

I feel your body resting against the door, and hear the light scratching of your fingers caressing the soft notches of the wood. I put my nose up against it and pretend I’m inhaling your aroma of smoke and chamomile body wash.

“I’ll stay here until you’re ready to come out. You don’t have to leave until you’re ready.” Your voice is now a gentle whisper. There are no warning signs of poisonous material.

What if I open the door to you, and you find that your bedroom is also suspended in the darkness, the drywall ripped open and crumbling? What if I’m not there when you open the door? What if our spaces are farther away than we thought?

A scarier possibility: I could open the door and you could come in and join me, and I could kiss you next to the sink and we could enjoy each others’ company with the leaky faucet and the crusty toothbrush with dried toothpaste on its handle. But then one day, I will open the door, and rather than me falling into the pit that surrounds us, the dark air will flood into the room, and you will have to deal with it, and you will not be able to escape.

“I don’t think I want to get out,” I tell you, and hear your breath hitch at the back of your throat. “But I don’t want you to leave either.”

I look back at the reflection in front of me. It is rigid and lonely, its skin is greyed with fatigue, but there is a very light blush on the tip of its nose. It’s pleading, grasping in the musty air of the humid bathroom. It’s mouthing words to me that I can’t quite make out, but I know what it wants for me.

The scariest possibility: you walk away, and I’m left to stare out of the window and pretend there are stars peppering the black sky surrounding me so that I have something to look at, but they don’t actually exist. And I am completely alone.

We’ll sleep next to each other tonight, you on the shag carpet and me on the dirty bath mat, an inch of wooden bathroom door between us.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll open it.