Dichotomy: The Pretty Purple Room

The door to the room would slide open slowly. Painfully slow. I would wake from my delicate sleep hearing the sound of it scratching against the pretty purple rug. Everything in that room was purple. The rug, the bedspread, the dolls….they had to have a discussion as to whether or not the Annie doll could stay in the room, being that her dress was red, and not purple. Annie stayed.

Everything else was purple. A princess’ lair. Frilly, girlie, precious, and purple.

The footsteps would be deafening, marching in time with the large silhouette approaching my side of the bed. I slept on the left side, closest to the window. She slept on the right side by the closet door. The closet that held pretty, delicate, little girl clothes. Sometimes we would pretend we ran a clothing store. We would hang some of those clothes around the room, and attach our own paper price tags. We were the best of friends, eager playmates, instant relatives, absorbed in our imaginative games for long stretches during daylight hours. But now she slept. Like a brick, like a log, like a….well, like a tired child who had the comforting sense of security that she was protected in the dark of night. The creatures who lurked in that small upper hallway of the caped house were not coming to get her, and so, she slept.
The overgrown hand would reach for the pretty purple blanket that I tried desperately to hold tightly to me. Slowly, slowly, the safety of the blanket was peeled away from me, leaving me exposed to the elements. I tried to generate excuses for why I couldn’t sleep over. I began throwing crying tantrums every Saturday morning before being picked up. I will miss my mom, my dog, my friends. I don’t feel well. For some reason those sharp words that would thrash around my mouth, just wouldn’t come out. I wanted to tell. I wanted them to understand. I wanted someone to keep me safe. I wanted to let someone else in to my internal prison, my hell. The words would never come out. I give so much credit to brave, courageous children who are able to report that someone is doing a bad thing to them. I was not that child. I couldn’t speak those shameful words. I knew that what was happening was a grown up thing. How could I look into the eyes of the grown ups in my world and say that this was happening to me?
I would keep my eyes closed and pretend to sleep. Maybe it will go away. Maybe if I shut off from this, it won’t effect me. Maybe I can lock myself up inside my head, with my own private thoughts, where no one else can enter.

Morning light would dance around the pretty purple room. She would wake up much later than me, still secure in her slumber. I barely had any sleep, but would spring out of bed at the first acceptable moment. I would reason, the sun is out so I can go downstairs and watch T.V. now. Even in my hell, I was thoughtful about waking others. Hours would pass until people began to join me and the chirping birds in the brand new day. The pretty purple room became a safe haven again. My companion and I dramatizing stories with Barbie and her friends, taking orders for merchandise in our store, deeply immersed in our imaginative play. He wouldn’t dare open that door during the day. I was safe until that next night of hell.
How could one room be so contradictory ?