Gabs Semansky

222 N. University Street

Vermillion, SD 57069
605-521-1439
gabs.semansky@usd.edu

about 1800 words

The Room
by Gabs Semansky

He awoke wearing nothing but a ratty pair of shorts that had been draped over his body.
Shivering slightly due to his nakedness and the cold expanse of the room he found himself in, the
man dragged his body upright and began to wander in silence.
Never had a space felt so still. From the wooden floors to the stone walls to the potpourri
of items he noticed littered around him, it seemed the sleeping room would never awaken. In the
center of this space was an assortment of ancient wooden benches, lined up one behind another
with an aisle down the middle. The legs of the benches met the floor almost seamlessly, as they
were made of the same pine that had long ago lost its luster. He paused for a moment, attempting
to imagine people who had once filled those seats. There was no memory of anyone ever being
here, or of this room at all really, but it was a familiar place. Familiar. Such a word usually held

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positive connotation, but the man felt only a chill spread throughout his body as he tried to
decipher where the leg of the bench met the wooden floor. He shook his head once, then twice,
attempting to dispel the coldness that seemed to be crawling deeper into his skin.
Hello? he called, breaking the silence. His voice echoed off the stone walls and was
swallowed by the tall ceiling. Neck craned upward, he studied the grand chandelier hanging
from what appeared to be miles above his head. Alone he stood under the ornate light fixtures
eerie glow.
With an unsure stumble, the man made his way toward the outer areas of the room.
Glancing down, he stopped to take careful notice of the trinkets littering the floor. It took him
only a moment to realize that he recognized all of them. A stuffed bear he had been given as a
child, a love letter written in his early teenage years, the tassel from his graduation cap. Small
mementos of his life forgotten about, or else not seen in years. He shook his head in confusion,
positive that he must be imagining these items that had long ago disappeared. A school art
project, his first drivers license, his favorite pair of sneakers from when he was twelve years old.
His heart trembled in his chest as he looked from left to right, watching the items appear before
him, scattered about the floor. Family photos, condoms, chewed up pencils
What in the world? his voice quivered as he reached down, picking up the left sneaker.
He traced his fingers over the rubber sole, found the grooves that had been worn down from
childhood play years ago. Reaching into the depths of his memory, the man tried to remember
how long it had been since he was twelve years old, how long it had been since he had entered
this room.

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The man rubbed his forehead, attempting to force lost time from his skull. Recovering no
recollection of time before his recent awakening, he instead turned his attention to a childhood
teddy bear sitting before him in pristine condition. Last time he had seen the bear, it had one eye
ripped out and a chunk of fur missing from its small brown belly. Dropping the sneaker onto the
cold floor, he reached down to wrap his gnarled fingers around the bears fragile body and shot
to his feet. He was struck by the urge to get out of the room immediately.
There had to be a door somewhere along the gray, stone walls. He paced the outskirts of
the enormous room, positive that his escape route would come into view if only he searched
every inch of this entrapment. Each wall was fitted with paintings of strange men performing
various tasks, from conferring with ghosts to sitting on clouds. The man slowed his gait as he
passed by each piece of art, fascinated by the stories depicted through the brushstrokes. Candle
holders were placed underneath the paintingssome empty, others with candles that had burnt
out ages ago, reduced to lumpy nubs. Other holders still contained candles now burning bright,
working with the chandelier to give the room a strange glow and tainting the air with combined
smells of myrrh, acacia, and musty cedar. The man watched the sticks grow shorter with a great
intensity, wrinkling his nose as their scents permeated the room. He did not know who had lit the
candles or for how long they had been burning.
Tearing himself away from the small flames, the man gripped the bear tightly and
continued to look for a door until he came upon a statue of a lamb in one corner of the room.
Judging by the dust clinging to the figure, it, and much of the room, had laid untouched for an
insurmountable amount of time. He traipsed over to the lamb, hearing his bare footsteps against
the old wooden floor. His forehead creased as he crouched to view the lamb at eye level. It was
made of cheap plasticthe ugly body must have been white once, but time had cursed it with a

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thick grime. The man reached out to touch the black face, but stopped. Lifeless eyes stared up at
him as he recognized that part of the lambs face had been wiped clean by fingers. His fingers.
He had done this before. Whether it was three years or three minutes ago, he was not sure. There
was not a door out of this room. He had already looked.
The man did not know how he knew, but he did. His lifes collections had already been
laid out before him, he had paced the room frantically, wiped the grime from the lambs face.
This could have been the second time or the hundredth. He lifted the bear to his face, gingerly
stroked the space above the velvety nose. His bear was perfect. More perfect than he ever
remembered it being outside of this room. Frowning, he studied it further, noticing a white glow
that seemed to surround the toy. Giving up on his search for a door, the man began to look more
closely at the items of his life strewn about the ground. He retrieved a piece of art from his
elementary days and made his way back to the benches at the center of the room.
This piece had been drawn during his rebellious preteen stage. Never having been a
talented artist, he had drawn a monster (that looked more like an angry green scribble) attacking
a woman who looked suspiciously like his fifth grade teacher. The monsters claws sunk deep
into the teachers stomach, and it looked about ready to crush her skull in its jaws. The man
chuckled as he read the comment in the top corner. Im calling your parents. We need to have a
serious chat. The comment had been circled in red ink, but, as the man looked more closely, the
ink seemed to be much thicker than what he would consider normal. It wasnt until the iron smell
expunged the sweetness of the candles that he pulled the paper away from his face. This same
bright red sprouted forth from where the monsters claws stabbed the teacher. Blood. The man
threw the paper as far from him as possible and cried out in surprise.

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After freezing a moment to recover from the shock, he grasped his teddy bear in hand,
stood up, and took a cautious step toward the bleeding paper. He reached down to grab the art,
fear removing the feeling from his fingers. Bright red trickled down the page. His numbness
came to a halt as he examined the paper closely to see a darker blood stain, dried from time. This
had happened before.
Thrusting the paper away from him once again, the man dropped the bear and once again
shook his head back and forth in an attempt to knock loose missing memory. He pressed his
fingers to his skull hard, trying to remember when he had entered this room, how many times he
had repeated this same cycle over and over.
Silence consumed the room as the man stood and counted his breaths. Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale. Remember, remember, remember. He once again looked around the room until he
spotted several steps that led to what appeared to be a small stage. A beautiful, wooden table sat
in the center of the stage, flanked by a chair and a podium. Curious, the man picked up his bear
and made soft strides toward the table. Its grandeur matched that of the chandelier. Small angels
had been painted on its front, wood neatly polished, a white cloth draped over the top. Unlike the
grimy lamb, this work of craftsmanship had seen a lot of upkeep. He studied it carefully, ran his
fingers over the painting. Each angel had a look of pure serenity on its face. The man vowed that
should he ever escape this room, he would feel that bliss. His feet led him to the other side of the
table, standing behind it and viewing the entirety of the room from his presence on the stage. It
really was beautifulthe architecture, the paintings, the childhood memorabilia strewn about.
Without being able to surmise exactly why, the man plopped the bear onto the table,
taking note that the toy glowed even more brightly when he did so. Never had the man seen
something that looked so pure. Every tuft of fur was in its place, limbs placed flawlessly, the

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bears round eyes seemingly holding life. He studied it without moving a muscle, and the
remainder of his memorabilia started vanishing, chandelier, lamb, candle, memories, vanishing.
How long would it be before he forgot everything that had happened that day? The man jolted as
he realized, for the first time, what was happening to him.
He continued staring at the bear. Its round, perfect eyes looking back toward him.
Expressionless, vacant. Not breaking eye contact, only vaguely aware of the world vanishing
around him. This was the end, or possibly just the beginning of yet another. Sighing deep, he
closed his eyes as he waited to disappear with the remnants of his life scattered across the room.
Darkness fell, but he then felt a warm breeze hit his cheek.