His Room


Mark Heustice



                                            
He was frightened of his door.  It shut him in, shut others out.  
It blocked his sight. It clicks shut, it has a voice.  It became 
part of the room.  It hides from him, tried to blend in with the 
walls.  But, like a person trying to push into a queue, the door 
disrupts its surroundings.  Its low eye stares into his privacy.  
His coat has hanged itself.  The unrecognisable form hangs
dripping, on the door.  The door holds it up like a dead rabbit.  
The window, the timid, frightened window, peeks from behind the 
curtains, not daring to breathe.  The curtains, like an over-
protecting mother, get in front of the cowering window, shielding 
it from the door's evil knowledge of the house.  The promiscuous 
goings on in the house below.  The wicked, piercing light hangs 
manically from the wise ceiling, screaming its shrieking white 
lightning.  The brave shades does battle with the light's biting 
rays, but to no avail.  The blind chair sits under the chattering 
desk.  It says nothing to no-one.  It has a purpose, granted, but 
it says nothing.  It knows a thing or two, but doesn't let on.  All 
the wardrobe does is eat.  Swallow clothes.  All day.  But even the 
wise ceiling fears the one thing, the single, solitary thing that 
stands against the wall.  Even the dormant door fears the mocking, 
mimicking mirror.  It shows things as they really are.  Shows the 
real truth.  Brings out the harsh truths and forms.  If you destroy 
the mirror, it will destroy you, its ghost will haunt you for seven 
hot summers.  It will maim you if you try to meddle with it.  Everyone 
fears the mirror.  He fears the mirror.  He fears his room as he stares 
at its night forms, as he brings the covers over his face.  He cannot 
bear to look. 

4/89.


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