Story / It's Just a Room - Part 1

I've decided to post my longer novella, "It's Just a Room," or IJaR for short.

Without further ado, here you go.

PREFACE

Insanity is one of my greatest fears, and I believe the best part about fear is being able to show others just how you feel. Reznor had The Downward Spiral, Waters had The Wall, I just have a room.

I wrote this book while I was living alone in a small dorm room in Moorhead, Minnesota. I was attending college for a degree I didn’t really want, and I didn’t quite know what to do with my life.

I was dealing with years of depression, angst from being freshly out of high school, and grief after the loss of one of my closest friends.

I channeled a lot of that energy into writing this book, so I hope it was worth it. I like the story, for whatever that’s worth. I hope you enjoy this tale as much as I do.

PART 1

10:07

Or at least that’s what it says on my watch. Hell I don’t even know if that’s A.M. or P.M., but I know it’s 10:07--10:08 now. I don’t know how I got here, I’m not even really sure where here is. It looks like I’m in some kind of basement, or maybe a cabin with no windows. There’s one solid wooden door on the wall behind me, and the rest of the room is made of the same dark grimy wood, probably walnut or some other abomination. The least I could ask for is a nice Oak or Maple, I mean come on.

Enormously wide planks line the floor, and the walls are made up of many stacked horizontal beams, maybe 5 or 6 inches wide each.

The ceiling matches to boot, just a bunch of wooden planks. I can’t imagine why anyone would go through the effort of building a room so boring, all made of the same material. Look at the Spanish for Christ sake, those guys built beautiful rooms and entire buildings, and they used different materials for the roof and the god damn walls. And it wasn’t all this shitty dark walnut.

I’m getting off topic, I woke up here a few hours ago, laying on my back against the wooden floor; I figured my back would be a wreck from sleeping on the hardwood, but I guess I must not have been here long.

This room has almost nothing in it, save for the aforementioned door behind me; the Oliver No. 9 typewriter I’m clickity-clacking away on; the desk upon which this contraption sits, pushed all the way to the back of the room facing the wall; a small wooden chair (both the desk and the chair are the same dark walnut as these wretched floors); a single light bulb suspended behind me in the center of the room by a rubber coated cord that never swings; and a strange painting on a wooden easel (yes, the same type of wood). The painting is somewhat abstract, but appears to depict a charcoal black jetliner cruising through a gorgeous mauve sunset. It almost looks like the plane is trying to fly free of the canvas, but really it could just be a couple black blobs and a pretty background, you can never really tell with these “modern art” pieces.

I’ve certainly never seen the painting before, that’s something I would remember.

Hell, I can’t even remember for the life of me what happened before I woke up in this room. I’ve walked over to check the door probably a dozen times in the last hour or so, and it definitely seems to be locked. I guess I keep hoping it won’t be. I even tried to force it open with a few good shoves, but nothing seemed to do the trick.

How the fuck did I get here?

11:53

I can’t bear this silence, I can hear my own heartbeat, drowning out my thoughts. If someone doesn’t let me out soon, I might die of Carbon Dioxide poisoning, or dehydration, or hell even starvation if it gets to that point; I just pray it’s the air, at least that would be quick.

For a while, I sat here, not moving, not doing anything, and after a few minutes, I couldn’t deal with it anymore, and began to scream. God, I must have screamed at the top of my lungs for nearly a full twenty minutes, “Let me out of here! Get me out! Help me!” I shouted everything I could, every plea, every obscenity, before I realized it probably isn’t going to be any use.

This room is pretty small, maybe six feet from the door to the back wall, and twelve feet wide. The ceiling is probably seven feet high. If I account for having been asleep for at least an hour, and having since been awake for five hours, I probably have about four hours of oxygen left before the CO-2 completely drowns me out and fills my lungs. I can’t imagine it would be terribly painful, but I’m breathing slow just to be sure, because I’d like to hold on as long as I can.

Maybe it was all an accident, maybe I’m not supposed to be in here. Maybe it was supposed to be someone else, some criminal or something, somebody who disturbed someone so greatly they felt it necessary to shove that person in a cold dark box.

Who am I kidding, someone dumped me in here for a reason, and they stuck me with this typewriter and this god damn painting. It doesn’t make any sense; I said it looked like a jet, but really it’s just too abstract, it could be anything.

It’s strange though, this room must not be a cabin, I can’t hear any birds outside, or even the rustle of the wind: Everything is silent out there. I figure I’m probably underground somewhere. I can only imagine that behind these walls are just miles and miles of dense Earth protruding from every side; save for one unseen hallway that I’m beginning to think I’m never going to uncover. If I thought you could give emotions a place, loneliness is certainly this room.

But it’s just a room, right? I mean come on, it’s just a wooden room, it’s not a jail cell, or a bunker; I suppose I could have woken up in stranger places. I could have opened my eyes, laying on my back strapped to some table, being prodded at by little green men with somniferous almond eyes (don’t even know what that means). At least down here there’s no one to “probe” me, right? I could have woken up aboard a ship being captained by a tyrannical pirate, to find myself a slave. I could have woken up in a tub of ice without a kidney, skin completely cold. I could have found myself in the throws of a gang raid, or I could have woken up behind the wheel of a car about to crash. About to swerve into an unsuspecting deer.

Anyway, it’s just a fucking room, and there’s really nothing to worry about, right? I mean the floor is actually pretty comfortable, and there’s at least a typewriter, right? Right?

Right, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be okay in here. Someone will come by and find me, maybe they’ll hear me typing, or maybe I could call out every once in a while, ask for help maybe? Someone on the other side might be able to open the door, maybe they have a key? Maybe. That’s got to be right.

No need to be alarmed folks, it’ll all be okay. I’ll get out of here unscathed, like Houdini himself.

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