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who’s home I visited

published: 2014-09-13

This early morning I was in someone’s home, in their bedroom. The king sized bed was empty, but the duvets crumpled. I put my hand on the mattress and it was still warm. The room was whiter than I’d expect it to be, more sterile somehow, with white-washed walls that felt cold. Except the wall behind the bed, that wakk was a shiny white from top to bottom. Something blue mixed into the muddled duvets. A sheet? The cemented floor was a light-grey.
A door led to a small bathroom. It had pale-green shiny tiles and mosaic tiles on the side walls. The tiles didn’t go all the way up to the ceiling, which surprised me.
There was another room, two steps down. I pushed the door open. It had a window and a single bed. This bed had a red woollen blanket on it, itchy looking.
The family had just had a baby, I knew. Father and mother slept in separate beds, alternating who was to keep watch that night.
Faint sounds of a family breakfast leaked into the room. On leaving, I noticed the black marks at the bottom of the wall, next to the door. A shoe? A box? A child, yes, an older child. I considered how that would annoy me in the otherwise whitened room. I left and came back to my bed.
I wonder who’s home I visited.

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