Plugged In

The walls felt strange. They were harder than I imagined, cooler to the touch, and they seemed to vibrate. Still, I dragged my hand slowly down the hall measuring my fear of these new sensations. As I rounded the corner, I was met by several eyes. Most were half shut. The ones that were open seemed surreal, the colors vibrant and glossy. The rest were focused elsewhere. The corner of the room, on the owner's knees, out the window, or on the box with flickering pictures.

The eyes drifted away. In their place were the sounds that had ceased only moments before. The rocking chair in the corner creaked. A couple of people were shuffling cards. I could hear someone humming. In the distance I was sure someone was screaming. They were loud, these everyday sins of living.

There was music, soft music coming from the other side of the room. A song, I was sure, from my childhood. Something my mother use to sing to me perhaps? I made my way between the noises and shapes and surreal eyes. I expected to find a gramophone. I hadn't seen one in a few years. I started to smile, looking for the little gold box with red velvet lining and spinning black discs.

What I found was a large box, tipped as if on its side. Inside the box were black and white shapes that danced as if they were human between quick flickers. One of the shapes masquerading as a gentleman called to me. He bid me to sit down before picking up a guitar and sitting down himself. He began to play a song. It was jarring. The sounds from the box that I found reassuring only a moment ago sounded jarring now. Fast sounds with lewd words.

I could feel my skin heating up unpleasantly. The eyes had returned. The screaming that once seemed distant felt as if it were right behind me. Everything in the room now felt hard and cold. I wanted to go home. I wanted to feel safe.

"Come on Gladys. Let's go back to your room. Henry will be waiting for you."

*** Daily Writing Practice ***