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At last the wallpaper is off. Only dust and tiny fragments of it remain. The rest still smokes destroyed in the fireplace downstairs. Fortunately John isn’t home. He dislikes it when I use it during the day. He doesn’t want me leaving the room at all. It is bad for my nerves he says. Especially after the incident the other day, he thinks my condition has only worsened.
But when I saw that horrid, twisted yellow pattern burn to ash in the flames, I was happier than I’d ever been these past months. I was a little sad to part from that woman. Melancholy filled my soul when I saw her writhing in the shadows. But then she began to dance, free at last from the shackles of that pattern. I am almost happy for her, she will not be trapped again.
I’m back in the room now. My room. Today the sun shines uncovered, so a little light perches in through the window bars.
The room feels strangely empty now, so open and free, nearly lifeless.
An old stale gray lies beneath the tapestry, raw plaster from the days long past. Some of it has slipped underneath my nails, I must scrub them later.
I’ve left my mark on the walls as well. Claw-like groves to compliment the ones on the floor. I was a little rough on that tapestry, I admit. Some lines of dried blood are drawn into the crevices.
Here I stand now, armed with the largest paint brush I could find. I had to dig around the basement a little. After stalking around the cobweb-filled labyrinth I’ve come to appreciated this little room better. The heavy air was so filled with dust and rot, my lungs gasped for the outside air like a drowning woman. I will not go down there again, my Husband will have to take the brushes down there himself if he wants my spirit to improve. Our stay is supposed to end in two weeks, I think by that time I shall be ready. My mind is so light today, without the wallpaper to observe there is a hole where all sorts of thoughts are floating about. Perhaps a new coat to the room will ground me.
With the door opened, the yellow stench of the tapestry is fading. A new smell takes its place, the sour, chemical stench of fresh white paint. It’s intoxicating, but it does motivate me. I dip the brush into the tin and begin by making a big one big stroke across the wall, as far as my arms can reach. Not efficient, but all the more satisfying.
I draw a little hill side, white on gray, trying to distinguish the shapes through the brushwork. I’m not very skilled, for I have not been allowed to lift a brush for so long. I wonder if it truly does help some poor souls that are heavy like mine to abstain from the joys of everyday activities. It certainly did not work for me. I couldn’t even think of nothing, the walls alway kept my mind occupied.