Minutes have passed. Maybe hours. I’m sitting in my bedroom. The one in the Verdun apartment I grew up in. That lonely basement bedroom I always hated. It smells musty in here, almost real. I know this is only an illusion. I haven’t lived in that apartment since I was a child. All my books are still on their shelves. Animal Farm. And this one, Lord of The Flies.
My G.I. Joes are lined up by the window sill. That window still looks like a ship porthole. I feel like I’m sitting in a submarine, leagues under the sea.
What is going on up there, at the surface? Is it quiet? Or is there a hurricane blowing across the water?
I’ve tried climbing the stairs to leave this suffocating room many times now, but always end up right back here, sitting on my narrow single bed with this tattered paperba
