The Forever Room
The Act.
Setting: a bedroom.
A canopy hangs above the bed like the rainforest, so atypical for a teenage boy (or any boy for that matter). To serve as even more evidence that Roosevelt is not just any boy, there is more makeup than I have ever owned in my life scattered haphazardly across his bureau. He glides over to the end of his bed like a fucking ballerina and I am so jealous because whenever I move it’s like a gazelle, but one that got shot in the ankle and nobody cared to finish it off. I just sort of tug on the hem of my black Beatles shirt when he pats the space next to him in the most trite way I’ve ever seen; it’s like he stepped out of my television.
“Oh come on, Tace, you’ve got to be kidding me. Just come sit down. I like dick anyway; I’m not going to try and take advantage of you.” I hate that he just called me Tace—the name I only allow Marley, Desiree, and Hillary to use. I want him to be formal and call me Stacy; I have no idea why he somehow feels so comfortable with this.
We only met at the beginning of this week, and now, Saturday, he decides to invite me over to his house. Marley introduced me to him, but she said she hadn’t really talked to him since he was in fourth grade—in the closet, wearing suits to school, and farting a lot—and only went over to him one morning to borrow some chapstick. I mean, sure, I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky person, and I’m basically an open book, so I’m not surprised that Ross and I quickly became genial acquaintances. But inviting me to his house?
“Tace, I—”
“Stacy. Please. If you want to live.” My body tenses and my throat is the Sahara in this room, but regardless of all these feelings shrieking at me to leave and cry wee wee wee all the way home, this wolf’s big black eyes are boring into me and somehow compelling me to take a seat by him.
“You know—” he lies back casually, both arms behind his head, “—I’ve never had sex with a girl before.”
“Me either…weird,” I say, trying to alleviate the tension that is clouding up all of my thoughts.
And then he’s looking at me with the absolute strangest look in his eyes; they are steaming with something that looks like lust, although I have never really seen that in action except on film. It’s a very lewd gesture in the ways that I’ve seen it—mostly on Law and Order: Special Victims Unit—and I don’t think that Ross’s look resembles those…well, at least I’m going to pretend it doesn’t so I don’t end up in a rumpled heap on his floor, much like the Armani sweater my focus now refuses to deviate from.
“Do you mind?” I ask, my tone attempting to slice through the mix of confusion and fear with my own brand of rudeness. I use both hands to take off my glasses so that I can clean them instead of prolonging this unwanted eye contact. The process of wiping my lenses off always takes a fair amount of time, because I always do it in the same fashion, though I am—as of late—unsure if it is my disorder acting up or if I am merely a creature of habit. Two breaths on each side of each lens and a quick six second rub with the right corner of my shirt.
I bite my lower lip and my shaky hands help my glasses find a way back onto my face, only to find that he has not let up with his stare. I am about to make another angsty and typically teenaged comment about how rude staring is, when he suddenly breaks his gaze and innocently smiles, asking, “Would you like to make some French toast?”
Eager for any way to remove myself from his bedroom, I nod and stand up at a speed capable of bringing about a migraine. I am pointing in every direction, trying to occupy myself with something just so I don’t have to rely on my subpar wit to get me out of this mess. I should have called Marley to tell them where I was before I left my house, but I didn’t think it would be this uncomfortable to be alone with him.
He gives me directions to the basement, where he says I will be able to find bread and spices. Making sure I know that there is no light down there, he sends me on my way. Though he smiles, I am certain there are still some remnants of that look in his eye.
Setting: a basement.
The moist air is heavy in my throat. It smells late; you know what I mean. There are only 27 steps on the stairs; this is making my obsessive compulsions act up like you don’t even want to know. My fingers fidget energetically and my teeth clench together causing a dull throb in my mouth. The clicking sound that my weak, malleable fingernails make as they click against each other is the only thing louder than my spastic heart, though the whirr of the water heater is definitely a contender. I blindly make my way across the concrete floor; it is smooth but chills the underneath of my calloused feet.
“Roosevelt? Uh, Ross? Are you even sure anything is down here? I can’t see,” I call out, nerves overtaking any sense I have before receiving no reply. No rustle, no squeaking stair, nothing to suggest that I am with company in the basement. I’m afraid I’m going to start having one of my infamous panic attacks if I can’t find those stupid odd-numbered stairs again.
Flash. I am backed into a corner and my breathing goes from zero to sixty in less than one second. There are two pairs of lungs at work in this claustrophobic area; I know this because I can feel and smell and taste someone else’s breath getting all up on my neck; it smells like crunchy Cheetos, which are far more cheesy and concentrated than the puffy ones. My eyes are closed and I can feel my heartbeat parallel that of a hummingbird.
“Oh, come on, Tace.”
That same voice runs down my spine like an ice cube. That same phrase that pissed me off in the bedroom earlier now has me practically shitting my pants in anticipation of an anxiety attack. Then, it was just so sickly sweet that I had no trouble threatening him, but now, with his pocked flesh rubbing up so close against my ear, speaking it with a hunger I have never heard in my fourteen years, I am completely incapacitated.
I want to shout something, anything, at the top of my lungs, like “I am about to be raped by a gay boy in his basement!” or maybe something, you know, a little more simple, like, “Help!” My lips, however, do not open; they only quiver, unable to even produce the one word I was taught to say since I learned about assault. My mind is like, “No, no, fucking NO!” But the words dry up before they roll off my tongue.
His peeling lips find their way to my neck, creeping like a spider as he kisses the base of my jaw—
I wake up in a cold sweat, eyes darting around for familiarity in the room I’m in, some kind of solace from that horrible nightmare.
No, wait. No, I don’t. Because this is real life. I am really pressed naked against the cold brick wall, really trying to scream so that someone will save me, really feeling the agonizing stretch of my womanhood.
Warm fluid slides down my leg, but whether I am bleeding or pissing myself I do not know. I feel something filling me up more than even Chinese food ever has, and it is a different sort of full, but I still feel just as sick. It hurts about a thousand times more than a tetanus shot and I want to lash out and scream and shout but his forearm is pressed against the base of my neck, rendering me completely helpless.
It feels like days pass, but I think it must only be an hour or two before I am alone, covered in white stuff like at Christmastime only Christmas is still a few months away and Christmas does not bring this much pain and fear.
I am shakeshakeshaking huddled in the corner of the basement, a strong aching between my legs, the dry taste of it’smyfault heavy on my tongue. If not for the reassurance of hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron…repeating through my head, the bubbling rumble of vomit would slither steadily up my throat. A few dry heaves escape and I distract myself by rubbing my wired eyes with my clenched fist.
I do not know if he has left the house or simply left me in the basement, knowing that I would cry or hyperventilate or something terrible; I am more than certain that he wants to smile knowing that he can put me in pain without even touching me.
Trapped, I feel the tightening of my lungs and the lack of air rushing through my throat; it is more than just disconcerting. My eyes begin to blur, my vision tunneling until the only thing I can make out is the small mousetrap not five feet from my huddled body. I am the mouse, and I will never escape this basement, I will be stuck here forever and he will come down and have his way with me again and—my heartbeat has still not slowed its furious beating, and it might just successfully beat itself right out of my chest. I am filled completely with panic; I am sure it is only in my head, but I hear his sick, nasally laughter in my ears like the bells of Notre Dame.
I cannot take it anymore, with the heart, the eyes, the head, the lungs…they are all telling me that they would rather just stop functioning altogether, leaving me just a corpse, up against the wall in Roosevelt’s basement. I manage to choke in a breath, but the will to give up and just let go is too strong; this pain is just too real and giving in to the darkness seems more than okay. As my vision tunnel comes to a full close, I lay my head down on the cold concrete, begging for some way out.
A canopy hangs above the bed like the rainforest, so atypical for a teenage boy (or any boy for that matter). To serve as even more evidence that Roosevelt is not just any boy, there is more makeup than I have ever owned in my life scattered haphazardly across his bureau. He glides over to the end of his bed like a fucking ballerina and I am so jealous because whenever I move it’s like a gazelle, but one that got shot in the ankle and nobody cared to finish it off. I just sort of tug on the hem of my black Beatles shirt when he pats the space next to him in the most trite way I’ve ever seen; it’s like he stepped out of my television.
“Oh come on, Tace, you’ve got to be kidding me. Just come sit down. I like dick anyway; I’m not going to try and take advantage of you.” I hate that he just called me Tace—the name I only allow Marley, Desiree, and Hillary to use. I want him to be formal and call me Stacy; I have no idea why he somehow feels so comfortable with this.
We only met at the beginning of this week, and now, Saturday, he decides to invite me over to his house. Marley introduced me to him, but she said she hadn’t really talked to him since he was in fourth grade—in the closet, wearing suits to school, and farting a lot—and only went over to him one morning to borrow some chapstick. I mean, sure, I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky person, and I’m basically an open book, so I’m not surprised that Ross and I quickly became genial acquaintances. But inviting me to his house?
“Tace, I—”
“Stacy. Please. If you want to live.” My body tenses and my throat is the Sahara in this room, but regardless of all these feelings shrieking at me to leave and cry wee wee wee all the way home, this wolf’s big black eyes are boring into me and somehow compelling me to take a seat by him.
“You know—” he lies back casually, both arms behind his head, “—I’ve never had sex with a girl before.”
“Me either…weird,” I say, trying to alleviate the tension that is clouding up all of my thoughts.
And then he’s looking at me with the absolute strangest look in his eyes; they are steaming with something that looks like lust, although I have never really seen that in action except on film. It’s a very lewd gesture in the ways that I’ve seen it—mostly on Law and Order: Special Victims Unit—and I don’t think that Ross’s look resembles those…well, at least I’m going to pretend it doesn’t so I don’t end up in a rumpled heap on his floor, much like the Armani sweater my focus now refuses to deviate from.
“Do you mind?” I ask, my tone attempting to slice through the mix of confusion and fear with my own brand of rudeness. I use both hands to take off my glasses so that I can clean them instead of prolonging this unwanted eye contact. The process of wiping my lenses off always takes a fair amount of time, because I always do it in the same fashion, though I am—as of late—unsure if it is my disorder acting up or if I am merely a creature of habit. Two breaths on each side of each lens and a quick six second rub with the right corner of my shirt.
I bite my lower lip and my shaky hands help my glasses find a way back onto my face, only to find that he has not let up with his stare. I am about to make another angsty and typically teenaged comment about how rude staring is, when he suddenly breaks his gaze and innocently smiles, asking, “Would you like to make some French toast?”
Eager for any way to remove myself from his bedroom, I nod and stand up at a speed capable of bringing about a migraine. I am pointing in every direction, trying to occupy myself with something just so I don’t have to rely on my subpar wit to get me out of this mess. I should have called Marley to tell them where I was before I left my house, but I didn’t think it would be this uncomfortable to be alone with him.
He gives me directions to the basement, where he says I will be able to find bread and spices. Making sure I know that there is no light down there, he sends me on my way. Though he smiles, I am certain there are still some remnants of that look in his eye.
Setting: a basement.
The moist air is heavy in my throat. It smells late; you know what I mean. There are only 27 steps on the stairs; this is making my obsessive compulsions act up like you don’t even want to know. My fingers fidget energetically and my teeth clench together causing a dull throb in my mouth. The clicking sound that my weak, malleable fingernails make as they click against each other is the only thing louder than my spastic heart, though the whirr of the water heater is definitely a contender. I blindly make my way across the concrete floor; it is smooth but chills the underneath of my calloused feet.
“Roosevelt? Uh, Ross? Are you even sure anything is down here? I can’t see,” I call out, nerves overtaking any sense I have before receiving no reply. No rustle, no squeaking stair, nothing to suggest that I am with company in the basement. I’m afraid I’m going to start having one of my infamous panic attacks if I can’t find those stupid odd-numbered stairs again.
Flash. I am backed into a corner and my breathing goes from zero to sixty in less than one second. There are two pairs of lungs at work in this claustrophobic area; I know this because I can feel and smell and taste someone else’s breath getting all up on my neck; it smells like crunchy Cheetos, which are far more cheesy and concentrated than the puffy ones. My eyes are closed and I can feel my heartbeat parallel that of a hummingbird.
“Oh, come on, Tace.”
That same voice runs down my spine like an ice cube. That same phrase that pissed me off in the bedroom earlier now has me practically shitting my pants in anticipation of an anxiety attack. Then, it was just so sickly sweet that I had no trouble threatening him, but now, with his pocked flesh rubbing up so close against my ear, speaking it with a hunger I have never heard in my fourteen years, I am completely incapacitated.
I want to shout something, anything, at the top of my lungs, like “I am about to be raped by a gay boy in his basement!” or maybe something, you know, a little more simple, like, “Help!” My lips, however, do not open; they only quiver, unable to even produce the one word I was taught to say since I learned about assault. My mind is like, “No, no, fucking NO!” But the words dry up before they roll off my tongue.
His peeling lips find their way to my neck, creeping like a spider as he kisses the base of my jaw—
I wake up in a cold sweat, eyes darting around for familiarity in the room I’m in, some kind of solace from that horrible nightmare.
No, wait. No, I don’t. Because this is real life. I am really pressed naked against the cold brick wall, really trying to scream so that someone will save me, really feeling the agonizing stretch of my womanhood.
Warm fluid slides down my leg, but whether I am bleeding or pissing myself I do not know. I feel something filling me up more than even Chinese food ever has, and it is a different sort of full, but I still feel just as sick. It hurts about a thousand times more than a tetanus shot and I want to lash out and scream and shout but his forearm is pressed against the base of my neck, rendering me completely helpless.
It feels like days pass, but I think it must only be an hour or two before I am alone, covered in white stuff like at Christmastime only Christmas is still a few months away and Christmas does not bring this much pain and fear.
I am shakeshakeshaking huddled in the corner of the basement, a strong aching between my legs, the dry taste of it’smyfault heavy on my tongue. If not for the reassurance of hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron…repeating through my head, the bubbling rumble of vomit would slither steadily up my throat. A few dry heaves escape and I distract myself by rubbing my wired eyes with my clenched fist.
I do not know if he has left the house or simply left me in the basement, knowing that I would cry or hyperventilate or something terrible; I am more than certain that he wants to smile knowing that he can put me in pain without even touching me.
Trapped, I feel the tightening of my lungs and the lack of air rushing through my throat; it is more than just disconcerting. My eyes begin to blur, my vision tunneling until the only thing I can make out is the small mousetrap not five feet from my huddled body. I am the mouse, and I will never escape this basement, I will be stuck here forever and he will come down and have his way with me again and—my heartbeat has still not slowed its furious beating, and it might just successfully beat itself right out of my chest. I am filled completely with panic; I am sure it is only in my head, but I hear his sick, nasally laughter in my ears like the bells of Notre Dame.
I cannot take it anymore, with the heart, the eyes, the head, the lungs…they are all telling me that they would rather just stop functioning altogether, leaving me just a corpse, up against the wall in Roosevelt’s basement. I manage to choke in a breath, but the will to give up and just let go is too strong; this pain is just too real and giving in to the darkness seems more than okay. As my vision tunnel comes to a full close, I lay my head down on the cold concrete, begging for some way out.