The light shone in through her bedroom window. Beams of sun spilled through her curtains and woke her. Often content when she first opens her eyes every morning, she gets a sudden uneasy feeling. She searches her room for something familiar. She looks for something that she can call her own. All the floral wall paper, porcelain dolls and stuffed animals on lace runners. In the photos mounted perfectly on her wall in a line, she did not see one familiar face. She sits up and things feel even less like home. There is a plastic cover over the upholstered chair at her little white wicker vanity. The way the sun hit it all was beautiful, but also provoking.
She gets over of her lace covered bed and walks to the window. She opens the curtains swiftly, letting all the sun spill in quickly, lighting everything as if she was pulling away a dark cover. The sun engulfs her and she moves quickly to one corner of her room. She takes the mounted photos down along with all the dolls and stuffed animals. She empties every single shelf and uncovers the fancy chair. She rushes to the other side of the room and digs her finger nails into the wall paper. She rips every last inch of it to shreds and all that is left are white walls.
She goes to her vanity and picks up her ink and her brush and walks slowly back to the blank wall. She takes the brush, and with it she writes largely “REALITY.”
And with that, she felt the uneasy feeling drift away, all that was often content, was content.