The Definition of Dysania (A Collection of Short Trepidations)

𝓡𝓮𝓿𝓳𝓿𝓪𝓵

Look to the right; all you'll ever see is a window with sheer lace curtains and warm light pouring out of the slightly dirty panes. You'll see the bright and simultaneously dusty mint green walls that frame the window and the long scratch marks from a previous animal that accentuates it.

About two inches from the dark wood floor up the wall was the creamy white of the solid wall detailing that lined the room. It was mirrored right below the ceiling too. Artfully placed next to the window stood a small metal table. The legs were minimalist with elegant embellishments. There was a clean and plain dark black beer bottle with fake yet realistic orchids stuffed in it, sitting next to a few hardcover books that I love on the table. I would say that when the light hit the glass of the bottle it made a beautiful rainbow on the floor, but the light never moved nor dimmed.

Hanging up on the wall to the left of the window was a clock that never moved. From the clock hung a few long leather strings that had little ornaments hanging on the end—like those things you grab when you're trying to make plastic blinds open or close. They would make a homely wooden sound if there were wind to rattle them.

This room is small, so I sit on a tastefully rusted metal bed that's pushed against the opposite side of the wall, which mirrors the style of the table. The mattress is springy yet so soft, and the cotton sheets are lackadaisically tossed over the side, like a sophisticated influencer's.

At the end of the bed, parallel to the footer sits a short antique wardrobe. If only I had jewelry and clothes to put in it.

On the wall parallel to the window over my bed, a dreary yet quaint landscape painting is hung.

On the wall behind the head of the bed, there are varying sizes of old family photos. The people are always too blurred to make out their definite features, but they all look so happy anyways.

Around the room, there is a cute, modernistic, touch of fairy lights strung around. Always glowing. I never found the energy socket for them.

Here, I sit on the edge of the bed, in a flowing nightgown. I don't remember any other clothes, other than a simple ring on my right hand. I don't remember any other stance.

I reach to grab a book from the table's stack and grin; excited to read the story for the first time. Again. I have read it before, but I can't remember what happens. That's what makes this all so beautiful—I can keep rediscovering my classics. It is such a wonderful and childlike excitement...

Oh.

I flip to the first page, and the words are all blurred. Of course, they are blurred! They've never been there in the first place. That's why I can't remember—I nod to myself. Place the book back down.

I smile again and slowly lay on the bed. Under the lopsided fleece blanket. On the ever-soft mattress. No pillow, but I prefer it that way.

I beam as I reminisce on my happiness. I can't remember anything different. My eyes blink closed in longer and longer increments until I can't think of anything much anymore.

***

My eyes spring open, and I'm still smiling.

Must've had a good dream.

I sit up and stare at the books again. Which one should I start reading today? I haven't read any of them yet...why haven't I?

I am just about to grab a book—my arm outstretched—when in the peripheral of my vision, a bright flash of light shines, and out of it walks a harried old man. I snatch my arm back to my chest, my eyes bugging out. I am so happy to see him; I grin.

Who is he?

He's gasping and crumpled over like a folded piece of paper—fragile like one too. He has a hand on his chest and a hand gripping, as much as it could, the wall. I smiled in anticipation of his fear.