Gibber
2.
I started tearing down the wallpaper, even though my grandmother told me not to.
The wallpaper had been in this bedroom ever since I could remember. It's a weird, dingy shade of off-white, with alternating flower, heart, and teddy bear patterns that was put up for my cousin when she was first born. I bet it was nice for a baby, but not for me.
My grandma told me not to tear it down, because it was covering holes that had been punched in the wall, but I didn't really care. I could almost guarantee to her that someone, eventually, would just put another one right through the wallpaper.
So I started tearing it down, but I didn't finish. Too lazy, I guess. Now, it's got a large bald patch next to the pretty baby designs, and for me, that works. It seems kind of metaphoric for the way I feel about this room.
It's a nice room and all, but I've always hated it. Whenever I spent the night at my grandparent's when I was younger, they would make me sleep upstairs, in this room. I would watch movie after movie, just to avoid having to go to sleep. I would toss and turn, letting my imagination dream up ghosts and demons until I was paralyzed with fear, certain that something evil was right around the corner.
Now, this is my bedroom. My grandparents moved out of the house about a year ago, and my family just recently moved in. Previously, we lived in a two-family house, in a town with a population of about thirty-thousand people. Living there had it's perks, like stores, restaurants, and other fun things within walking distance. It had a good school district, and the house itself was in a nice, quiet neighborhood. Still, it wasn't home. Home for all of us was the town my mother and I had both grown up in. It was small, with a population of about one-thousand. There was one store, one gas station, and three restaurants - four, if you count the Christian coffee shop that no one I knew really bothered with. It was a town with about three main roads, and an endless stretch of back-roads to get lost on. Nothing ever happened here, and I used to resent the town for that, but once I left it behind, I started appreciating it more for the simple beauty of the place.
If I had my choice, we would have moved back to the house that I really grew up in, the one we got evicted from, but, obviously, that wasn't an option. Instead, we got the house that my mother grew up in, and that was okay with me. I was older then. It was time for me to stop letting my imagination get the best of me.
The wallpaper had been in this bedroom ever since I could remember. It's a weird, dingy shade of off-white, with alternating flower, heart, and teddy bear patterns that was put up for my cousin when she was first born. I bet it was nice for a baby, but not for me.
My grandma told me not to tear it down, because it was covering holes that had been punched in the wall, but I didn't really care. I could almost guarantee to her that someone, eventually, would just put another one right through the wallpaper.
So I started tearing it down, but I didn't finish. Too lazy, I guess. Now, it's got a large bald patch next to the pretty baby designs, and for me, that works. It seems kind of metaphoric for the way I feel about this room.
It's a nice room and all, but I've always hated it. Whenever I spent the night at my grandparent's when I was younger, they would make me sleep upstairs, in this room. I would watch movie after movie, just to avoid having to go to sleep. I would toss and turn, letting my imagination dream up ghosts and demons until I was paralyzed with fear, certain that something evil was right around the corner.
Now, this is my bedroom. My grandparents moved out of the house about a year ago, and my family just recently moved in. Previously, we lived in a two-family house, in a town with a population of about thirty-thousand people. Living there had it's perks, like stores, restaurants, and other fun things within walking distance. It had a good school district, and the house itself was in a nice, quiet neighborhood. Still, it wasn't home. Home for all of us was the town my mother and I had both grown up in. It was small, with a population of about one-thousand. There was one store, one gas station, and three restaurants - four, if you count the Christian coffee shop that no one I knew really bothered with. It was a town with about three main roads, and an endless stretch of back-roads to get lost on. Nothing ever happened here, and I used to resent the town for that, but once I left it behind, I started appreciating it more for the simple beauty of the place.
If I had my choice, we would have moved back to the house that I really grew up in, the one we got evicted from, but, obviously, that wasn't an option. Instead, we got the house that my mother grew up in, and that was okay with me. I was older then. It was time for me to stop letting my imagination get the best of me.