The Bedroom

The walls were white. White enough to blind every skier and snowboarder on the mountain even if they had goggles on. Even the pillows and the sheets and the floor ganged up with the snow-blinding walls against her, and tried their hardest to do just that. The only objects that refused to join in were the bed frames which were tanned by wetter than cliffs pounded by the world’s biggest waves, and the mound of sleeping human on one of the beds, and the pile of book bags next to it on the floor. She had wandered the entire town like she was climbing the Himalayas searching for Shangri-La. With eyes boring into her from every person on the street. Like the Wendigo boring his eyes into Marigold from a rooftop. She just happened to sit down on the one shelter in town that had a space for her. And its pillows and sheets and walls and floors just had to gang up on her and try blinding her just like the snow on the slopes.

Tiffany Amber did used to ski. Season: summer. State: Oregon, USA. Mountain: Mount Hood. Even in July the snow didn’t melt on Mount Hood, and Tiffany Amber was lucky enough to not be there in the peak season or during peak hours. There were still people on the slopes, but at least it wasn’t massive. Enough room to ski like she knew she wanted to ski. Enough room to not be forced by the governess to talk like she had histrionic personality disorder just like the popular girls at school. Enough room to not feel like an ant about to be stepped on, even though there would be more than ten feet between her and the next humanoid.

That day there were few people on the slope. That day the massive spaces of air-filled void invited her into them. That day she accepted the invitation, and sped up to abandon her governess as usual, and then abruptly halted at her favorite forest path.

And as usual it took two or three days for Governess to catch up. And as usual she had to catch her breath like a tornado picked her up and threw her against the slope. And as usual they took off into the big white path.

This path was one Tiffany Amber took a lot. She always crossed it when she skied that run. But it sure was bunkered. Dip and then trough. Dip and then trough. Dip and then trough. If she didn’t make a slice of pizza with her skis she could fall into the trees.

And normally she did. But this day she got too many invitations to accept. And she said yes to too many of them. And so she forgot the pizza pie. She made her skis parallel and didn’t even know it. And before she knew it, blue sky tipped until that was all she saw, and she slid into half-green, and slammed into bloody brown. She took off her helmet and touched her head. Her hand came back redder than a ruby on the Crown Jewels. And then she rolled over and threw up.

Tiffany Amber was lucky enough she didn’t die or get paralyzed from the fall, let alone not suffer any permanent conditions. But now she stood in a room where the walls and beds and floor read her mind and decided to torture her just for the hell of it. But what could Tiffany Amber do about it? Turn around and find another shelter? Steal for her food? Go begging on the streets? She could—if she wanted to starve to death, or have the overlords catch her before she could even give the hundred tons of belongings on her back and in her arms. Tiffany Amber could be grateful this shelter just happened to have room, and just happened to take in escapees, and just happened to be the one she arrived at.

I think I can manage, Tiffany Amber replies.

Well, try to make yourself comfortable, the woman requests.

Okay.