The Room That Wasn't Meant to Be

TheRoomThatWasn'tMeanttoBe

By:YenZi

Ihavealwaysdreamtofthisroombeingaplaceofjoy.Apockethiddenfromthemiseriesofthe worldifyouwill;theoutsideworldcreptin.Thepiercingsunlightspiltthroughthegapsofthe pinkpolka-dotcurtainrevealingtheplastictoysonthefloor--inastateofperpetualglee.“I supposesheburst,can’tblameher,”Ithought,atleasttherewasaroomtocontainthe‘storm’ thistime.

Imeanderedtothebabycottracingthefloralcarvingwithmyfingertipscallousedindaysof labour Thenurserywassupposedtoseetantrums,butnevermywife’s.Ikneltonthehardwood floorpickingupthelavenderfleeceblankettossedinafitofrage.Mydaughterwassupposedto beswaddledinthis.Mydaughterwassupposedtocomehomenextweek;Isupposea miscarriagehasawayofwreckingplans.

Spotsofblooddottedthefleece,amatchingsetwiththebloodiedthrashedbabymobileinthe Icorner.drewthe

curtainsasthesunlightcastsharpshadowsontothewallpaper.Ioftenmistookthem forpeoplebecauseofhowtheycrept.Thefanspunsqueakingrelentlesslyandhopelessly blowingrecycledairdownmyneckakintothebreathofalurkingsomeonebehindyou.Whatif thesemorbidcomparisonswerehowIcoped?HowIfeltlessalone.Thetearsinthe star-sprinkledlilac-coatedwallpaperexposedtheroughconcretethathidbehindthethinskin.It wasafacade.

Theroomwassmall;aqualityIoncefoundendearinglycosywhichInowfindsuffocatingly claustrophobic.Ituckedtheblanketintotheachinglyemptycot—onceagaincleaningupafter hertantrums.IsupposeshetookthebadnewsatadbitworsethanIdid.

Thewardrobedoorwasplasteredingarishoff-colourrainbowstintedalayertooyellow.Itooka steponlytobeleveledbyawoodentoyblockstabbingmyheel.The,nowexternalised,painsent mecrashingtothegroundlikeahelicopteroutofgasatitswit'send.Ipryedmyeyelidsopen fromthedefeatedinvoluntarywincingonlytoberemindedofhowlowtheceilingwas.Wasthe fanalwaysthatclosetome?Mywateryeyesfollowedtherobin'seggblueandlavenderspirals emanatingfromthealreadyspinningfan.Ithoughtitwasacutepatternbutinhindsight,this interiordesigndecisionwas,infact,adizzyingdisaster.Nownauseated,myeyeswentshut again;myheadprayingforawayoutofthiscotton-candy-colouredpurgatory.

ThewallscavedinasIsoakedinthemustyairanddeafeningmelodyofthesqueakingfan. “MaybethisiswhatIdeserve”Iwondered,grievingmydeaddaughter.