The room where fear slept

"Is this your room?"

It was, well, depressing.

Everything was dull and gray.

It was small and coated with a thick layer of dust.

The window was broken, like someone had thrust their fist through it in anger.

The cold winter air floated through it and sent chills up my spine. 

The walls were cold brick that had been painted white.

The paint was peeling.

It must have been done a long time ago, and whoever did it did a horrible job.

A small mattress lay on the dirty floor.

It looked hard.

Defiantly not a place you'd want to sleep.

A thin sheet coved the mattress.

A pillow as flat as, well, a flat pillow, lay there too.

The bed looked like it had never been made.

Ever.

The pillow was tossed to the side, the sheet was wrinkled and and messed up.

Someone had been tossing and turning in fear.

Nightmares.

The bed was filled with them.

Panic covered the room like the dust.

Despair hung in the air like the cold coming through the crack in the window.

 

Fear slept in that bed.

"Yes. This is my bedroom."

Her unseeing eyes stared into the room.

She couldn't see anything.

She didn't touch anything.

She smelt it all.

It smelled terrible and familiar. 

She smelt the horrible memories.

She smelt the nightmares.

She smelt the panic.

 She smelt the despair.

She smelt the fear.

She felt the pain.