Naseria
My room
I can't put it into words, as we've been taught.
Not in the way it's supposed to be put into words, like people put their clothes on. That would be an obvious and easy way. Easy. Easy for someone else, maybe another me on a timeline between different dimensions, but not for me who is now standing in the middle of a room that feels empty. There's a bed, a rug, a shelf, a table...and lots of other stuff. It's empty in the way that someone has been here and put my stuff in different places than where I had put them. The stack of books on the table was back on the bookshelf and not even in the same order as when it was on the table, it was now in the same row, in the same place, and so were the books on the floor that I had left unfinished while reading. The gaps that had been left open were now closed, and I had no memory of which pages I was on in five different books.
It doesn't help, no matter how hard I try to breathe. It doesn't help, even though my hand gets lost in my hair and pulls at the thicker hair growing on the back of my neck. My hand jerks and tugs at it more and more furiously. More anxiously, more irritated. My heart beats its way out of my chest and my breath, which travels as oxygen in my lungs and comes out as carbon dioxide, feels more like cement at the back of my lungs. It tears at the alveoli, burns like bitter smoke. My fingertips start to prickle at the same time as my lips tingle in the way they do just before a possible fainting spell. I do feel the ground swaying beneath my feet before that and I see how the floorboards seem to undulate higher.
I sit down. But not on my bed, which is now made in a different way than I was used to before. Every day. My stuffed animals were in the wrong order, and just thrown on top of my bed. They were supposed to be neatly arranged in their own places, in rows to take care of each other and keep each other company.
The carpet has been vacuumed.
I look at the hairy surface of the carpet, the little nits that came out from the edge of the carpet, but they were in such messy rows and not arranged in straight lines.
The clothes.
No. No no.
They have been taken away. All the ones that were on the floors, ready so that it was easy for me to put them on and find what I wanted to wear at any time. Now they would be in the wash, in laundry bags, and I would not know when they would come out of the washing machine and be dry again. Ready for me to use. What am I going to wear now? My wardrobe is overflowing with clothes, but they are not exactly the clothes that had been here. The clothes I liked to wear the most because they didn’t have chafing seams, constricting necklines, or strong smells from laundry detergent.
I put my head on my knees. I breathe. I try that over and over again, without understanding why this had to happen. The feeling won’t go away, it presses against my sternum until it makes me cry. And yet the weight doesn’t go away. It feels like it’s pressing down on me endlessly, and tears won’t wash it away. Tears just make my nose stuffy and breathing become all too laborious again.
It was my room, my stuff, my mess.
It should have been mine to clean, mine to touch. Even if it looked like a dump and I’d been told off for cleaning it for the fourth time and living in chaos.
Why did anyone else have to touch it, touch mine. It causes this feeling that was just too hard to get rid of for a long time. It would come back again and again until there was nothing left. Until everything was the way it was supposed to be again, and that would take weeks. That feeling would remind itself every time I needed something and I couldn't find it because someone else had touched it and put it in the wrong place
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