Creative Writing: The Inferno

It is the quintessence of monotony: a mountain chain of stucco that lies
atop fallow lots the size of kitchen magnets. Welcome to suburbia. I
effortlessly enter my pervious pastel palace, but the voyage to my room is an
uphill battle; it is quite an insurmountable quest. The trek to my cell
consists of a frozen spiral staircase. It is not smooth and slippery, though,
but rocky and perilous. The portal lies beyond the staircase…
I force my way through the abrasive forcefield of forbiddance. The
shrieks of my tearing flesh are subdued by the overpowering silence of the room.
Words are mouthed, but not spoken. They do not exist. This cubicle of torment
does not allow language, the embodiment of opposition. As I step into my room,
I notice all colors of the spectrum for a fraction of a second, then they appear
red. Countless pictures adorn the walls; they are all of one person. I know
her, but who is she? Her eyes are dark and enigmatic. I can see the sadness in
her eyes. Her eyes. They lack the luminescence of the youthful character they
portray. Her glances pierce through my being like light through glass. The
carpet is a sea of scorn. It stabs my feet with its blades of contempt. The
walls of mockery laugh at me as I foolishly try to climb them to rid myself of
its presence. Yet there is no escape. I have inflicted more pain upon myself.
Nothing is soft in here; everything is jagged. My un-sanded wooden dresser
rests on the right side of the doorway. Figures of dancers with invisible
partners lie atop the uneven surface. They seem to move slowly across the
dresser, like seaweed drifting aimlessly across the sea. My unpleasant and
discomforting bed of stone rests in the center of the room. It is not the usual
shape of a bed. Rather, it seems as if it were molded to fit my body alone. Is
there no solace? The closet stands only two feet away from the front of the bed.
Inside is a world of death and destruction. My clothes are victims of either
neglect or overuse. My shoes, an array of black, sit near the foot of the
closet. They too are innocent victims of negligence or abuse. They are
casualties of an reckless spirit. The stench of decay creeps from my nose into
my mouth. I lick my lips in disgust of this new taste. As I look about the
room, I notice the mirror above the dresser. It is warped and misleading.
Gazing into the mirror, I see more than just my body. I see a being crying out
because of the agony of distortion. She can not be heard.
A deluge of darkness overtakes my bedroom. My eyes are suddenly fixed on a
beam of light. The radio that rests to the left of my dresser has a light that
indicates power. It beckons me, but I am restrained by the dark angels in my
bedroom. They always appear when I long for anything. They are with me, in my
room, for eternity.

Category: English