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Rated: E · Chapter · Death · #1990016
ghost of a dead child's bedroom
The room is white marble. Marble floor, marble walls, marble ceiling. There is one row of glassless windows, but these are covered by canvas blinds that sometimes breathe with a crisp night breeze and they caress the air almost fluid. Only then does the moon’s light navigate its way in, and give the objects within phosphorescent life, if only for a brief instant. It has a Napoleonic complex this room. Its measurements are small, but it feels vast. One of those places where you can lose yourself in its immensity by simply closing your eyes. It has stuffed itself with objects from here and there, none of which hold any resonance in reality. They are relics of a lifetime, seemingly cut off dramatically at some inappropriately young age. Art hangs on the cold walls. No paintings though, it is simply squares of thick white, within thick white frames, hanging on the thick white walls. It isn’t the divine white that gleams and glistens, but it sits dispassionately, and if you look at it directly your eyes will thud at the impact of their vision colliding with such dense nothingness. The scent of the place is strange. If you breathe too strong you will choke. But at ease, it floats into your brain as a delicate perfume of wispy death and emptiness. It isn’t a happy place, but it isn’t a sad place. Its bipolar emotions used to wash and batter each other, and fight huge battles, damaging each other greatly. Though with time the collisions have ceased, and the emotions have lost their definition and edge. Now, the room just sits, clinging to a departed life in its own nihilistic existence
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