Every promised heaven has walls.
White silk covered the entire room. The walls were carefully draped in it—no holes where nails could’ve been, just folds tucked neatly under the corners. The room was smooth as silk. No imperfections.
No furniture save a pillowy soft bed, the right length for a teenage body to lay comfortably on. Not much room for turning. Either you lay on your back, rigid, unmoving, or on your stomach, suffocating on the smell of unscented silk.
The room was small. No chairs or bedside tables. No lamps. Just the plush single bed encased in white silk sheets and a small comfy pillow. If you stretched your arms to the side, you could touch the walls. Point your toes, you could touch the other and feel the wall’s resistance.
The ceiling was low, too low. If you stretched your arms above your head, you could touch it. There was a window in that ceiling. A skylight? A peephole? Maybe for watching? Maybe for being watched?
There was room for one. Only you.
It was inviting, yet cold and held the promise of peace, quiet, emptiness. Just you, your thoughts. Nothingness.
Laying on that cool silk-covered bed felt like sinking into the earth, one breath at a time. Deeper, deeper into the depths of oblivion.
The once bright light streaming through the peephole begins to fade, until—nothing.
May you find your way out,
Meagan