An Untitled Tale.

I remember when I decorated my bathroom. Chastity was pure. Chastity was my only possession. I cherished nothing more but Chastity. This room…

The room I’m in at this moment reminds me of my bathroom; only, my bathroom was Ikea influences. Wash cloths assembled with designer fuzzy white floor mats and white hand-dry towels (that were never to be used) hung from titanium silver hedges. This room I’m sitting in is white as well. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor: All white. Yes there’s a door, however, it is red, and poorly aligned to properly meet the desire of being placed as a center piece of Wall 1, if that’s not too much to add. I can’t help but to think while sitting, staring in a gaze at this off centered door...underneath the final coating of paint; deeper into the wood frame design was a plan of perfection. And to think, one asshole fucked it all up, not to mention didn’t care to fix it. I bet he used his Big hammer, along with an impressive educational background and degree in this source field, prepping for this very moment. For he is in fact, the master of measuring and correctly assembling door frames, according to his diploma. Funny to know that a person who’s profession relies on detail, could fuck up so royally. As I sat, gazing at the gold knob on the fucked up red door, in this white room, I finally realized, I was trapped like a mime. Trapped within the Walls of 1, 2, 3 and 4, but mostly, trapped within a mind of insanity that I refuse to admit as my own. Needless to say, a mime may pity me. For I have no plan to escape, I have no desire to monitor these walls in search of the secret hot spot that ultimately releases me into the world to live forever free without a sound. So scratch the mime comparison all together, I feel as though I’m locked away inside a coffin, breathing through an oxygen tank to relieve life throughout the scene of death. Mr. Mime, no need to pity me.

In my bathroom, I would sit in the corner of Wall 2 and write memories into memory holders. I could never remember days, only recollections of moments that will never channel again. Funny how that works. Memories, I mean. I can not tell you exactly what textile I pranced around in that day, however, my mind can vividly recall the moments that were the sweetest, word for word, second for second. Or maybe only the moments I wish to bear in mind.

As I sit in my corner of my new white room in corner 2, I can’t help but to think of my Chastity. However, interrupting my thoughts, the doors red has begun to leak unto the white floor. Melting into a puddle of sorrow. This door knew that it had been fucked by that man and forgotten. Bleeding into another world, into another story, Mr. fucked up red door had begun bleeding into another colors pain. Poor lonely red has begun inching its way to my corner, so slow and seductive. I watched as Chastity began to reveal herself to it so willingly. Chastity, my Chastity, I should've known. You only bring me here, feeling like that child again. For I am here, the same as before, wrapped inside of my own anguish, leaking my own blood. Chastity, my Chastity, I should’ve known. Mr. Red, please do not poplute your sin into my pure Chastity. Again.

This room was not my bathroom. In fact, this is nothing like my bathroom. In my bathroom, I live for the memories of Chastity. Who was so violently ripped away from my bosom like a child.

I am suicidal, and this terrible room hinders my intention. Where am I? Where is my Chastity?