One can be said to be extremely fortunate if he/she manages to catch a glimpse of the room’s inhabitant. Behind a humungous stack of what looked like a chaotic mess of books, files and sheets of music, there could occasionally be seen a young girl of 16, with her head low, nose almost touching the desk, busy scribbling away in an old worn-out diary, which opened with a small brass key which she kept securely tied around her neck. What secrets she kept in it, no one knew, not even her, as once written, there was no way anyone including herself could read them again, her hieroglyphic handwriting made sure of that.
The overhead shelves were stuffed with books and music CDs. Everyone in that house very well knew that those shelves were to be opened at their own risk, as, if a pile of assorted objects were to topple down on them; she was not to be held responsible for it. Once you’re lost deep in the dense jungle of Angie’s room, there is no guarantee of whether or not you will come out. It is one of the most feared places in the entire society, and simply mentioning its name sends shivers down people’s spine.
Her bed was a rare sight as it was usually covered with an assortment of clothes of all seasons. One would find sweaters, jackets, shorts, tees and raincoats at the same time on her bed, no matter what season it is. Lord alone knows how she sleeps there, or if she sleeps at all. In one gloomy corner lay an untouched black guitar case covered in soot, judging by its condition one would guess that it had been there for over a decade.
The curtains in her room were rarely up and sunlight was never to be seen either. Most annoyed by her room’s condition was her mother. She would complain all day about the filthy little room on the second floor just near the terrace. She would complain all right, but even she wouldn’t dare step a foot inside. What once went it never came out. And that was true for both animate and inanimate objects. It was as if the room itself knew whom to let in and whom to torture, frighten and then ruthlessly kick out. It welcomed Angie with the usual greetings of various chirpings under the bed and a few shrill squeaks from the dormice which lay snuggled behind the door.
Just the thought of it was life threatening. There were so many ways that one could go into coma, become unconscious or in extreme and prolonged visits, even die because of her room. The moss covered door which was the only way in and out disgusted most of the daring creatures willing to go inside, the scent of rotting meat which was a very usual thing in her room was good enough to send the visitor into a trance-like state, and if those didn’t work well enough, the yet undiscovered species of poisonous insects that reigned under her bed and tended to react at the slightest disturbance would surely do the work. It was like Angie’s own little kingdom. She was the queen, the ruling power, and she reigned over happily, as no place in the entire universe could ever give competition to that nasty little room of hers.