Room Full of Empty

From where I’m positioned, a light bulb swings from a frayed electrical line from the ceiling. Next to me is a partially torn mattress drenched in gasoline. The room doesn’t have windows or doors. And my mouth tastes like blood. My name is Rasheed and I’m 32. I think.

My most recent solid memory is rain and then a sharp pain to the back of my neck. The Jordan 13’s on my feet look familiar. They’re my brother’s. I think. But the Rolex is a mystery. I hardly could afford rent in Brooklyn, so certainly the time piece can’t be mines. My shirt collar is ripped and spots of blood have stained the white sleeves. I frantically investigate the small room with my eyes. “Hey ! Can anybody hear me!” My voice box is cracked and I can hardly whisper. In addition, there’s also a sharp stabbing pain on the left side of my face, near my upper cheekbone.

I reach in my pocket and find a cell phone. It’s not mines. I don’t do Androids. Nevertheless, it’s unlocked. So I take a few selfies and study the results. My jaw drops. Well, not actually. Because it can’t. That stabbing pain earlier is a dislocated jaw bone. I then pinch the glass to magnify the pictures to study more. Black and blue bruises, and skin burns, invade my neck and Adam’s apple. My left eye is blackened, while both pupils are bloodshot. My bottom lip is busted and the blood dribbling down my chin is dry rotted like 5 day old icing on a pound cake.

“What the hell is going on?”, I thought.

I drop the phone, stand to my feet, and walk the room. The floor is sticky like spilled cool-aid. I proceed to sweep my hands across the cold and sweaty walls, and search for secret exits, handles, or buttons, or anything not so obvious, but should be. Negative. The room is a dead end. So I punch the walls with incredible force, repeatedly. I fracture two outer knuckles on my right hand and the pain drops me to my knees. I whimper with whatever air was left in my lungs.

After 27 minutes of stillness, the pain from not knowing I’ll escape, swallows whole, the pain of endless broken bones. I cannot die here. I cannot! I grab the phone again rejuvenated. And attempt a call. But the phone signal is obsolete. So next, I decide to skim through the phone’s call history: 32 missed calls—4 of which, are as recent as two hours ago—and all from the same number. But a number I don’t know. And even if I knew it, the phone’s battery is now at 2%, and ready to die. Like me. I walk to the mattress, lower my body slowly, and lay down with my face once more pointed at the light bulb with its frayed electrical line that hangs from the ceiling. I then place the phone over my heart, shut my eyes, and embrace the tears that purifies my sins.

But two minutes later, the phone suddenly chimes. It’s a text. And from the unknown number, who earlier, had called 32 times. After reading the text, I rise to my feet. The message was direct:

“you’re over thinking it. Slow down”.

I try to reply, but the phone dies in my hands and the screen goes black. I smile. Because I now know freedom isn’t far away. I think.

Written By: Steeve Saintvil