The door creaked.
I felt the dust beneath my feet.
Squatting down, I sunk my finger in the inch-deep dust.
And then came realisation.
It wasn't dust.
It was the substance within his pillow.
It has been years.
So he still does fancy pillow fights.
Just like years before, his bed, in a total mess.
His books, not resting on the shelf.
His floor, not swept.
Even his closet.
It has been turned upside down.
Yes, this is him.
After so many years, he is still the same.
The same old guy I knew.
In the corner of my eye, there was a glass cabinet.
It shined amongst the other objects in the room.
Inside it was an antique.
A family heirloom.
The chinese characters carved in wood.
Till today, it still shines, like never before.
Outside the window, the garden.
The plum tree, with plenty of fruits.
Purple are they.
Soft are they.
The bark of the tree, rough.
Brownish, thick, aged.
The paint in the room is peeling off.
The greyish dust, floating in the air.
If only he would have the chance to experience freedom again.
Feeling the dust on the door knob, I close the door.
Closing the room for him in my heart.
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Justin, what a nice descriptive writing. I think what you are trying to describe is an old friend's room. You certainly did it quite well. Especially the part about the pillow fights. I liked it because it sounded so real, as if you really knew that friend deep down in your heart. However, I have a few questions. Where is that friend now? Is he dead or something? Also, I would like to find out who he was playing pillow fights with, since it seemed like he was a child such a long time ago. Hope you could get back to me. Thanks!
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