Creative Writing Assignment-Memoir: Setting

Small cramped room, with a solitary window clouded over with plastic to keep the heat in. Four walls painted a light sea foam blue, yes sea foam blue not green. One white beam above the window, with the words “Sing me back home-The Hag” scrawled across it in clumsy cursive. I painted that a few weeks back, to make the room more mine and sort of as a rebellious act against my step mom. The head of the bed is pressed against the far corner and the foot rests under the window, I feel safer away from the door and backed in a corner. The multicolored scrap quilt my grandma Bert made me, using scraps of clothing and handkerchiefs from my great-grandparents, lay on my queen-sized bed. My room isn’t exactly dirty, but cluttered. A plastic tub full of books, school supplies and other odds and ends sit at the foot of my bed against the third wall not leaving an inch between wall, tub or bed. Then there’s my stereo, black three piece 5-Cd disk changer with two tape deck. On the top is my little ceramic pug figurine my dad bought me, with my class ring resting next to it and my senior key swirled around the two. They are still on the radio because I haven’t put them back on since I went to bed last night. In the corner next to the stereo is my “dresser.” Really it is just 4 or 5 small shelves I have to roll my clothes up and place them on. There’s no room for an actual dresser or anything bigger the three feet wide shelving that sits nestled in between the corner and the tall freezer next to the door. The carpet is thin and threadbare, some dark blue color. I never cared for it, so I’m glad only a five foot rectangle path of it was visible.
Above my bed is the room’s one decoration, my dad’s old Stetson. Slowly losing it’s shape from non-use but I still love it because it was his. Every week or so I sneak into the bathroom and steal his Old Spice aftershave and sprinkle some on the hat because I miss the smell during the week…and lately the weekends. Holding oneself captive is a bit harder than one may think. My forgotten room is chilly as the heater doesn’t quite reach me from the living room two rooms down, but not too bad; or I’m just so used to the cold I no longer feel it. I don’t want to go outside the plain brown door, I know what waits for me. my step mom throwing me disgusted looks as she cares for my toddling brother, my younger brother no longer speaking just sitting in a chair waiting for breakfast. Then dad, the man I’ve only known for a few years (off and on at that) cooking dinner completely oblivious to the melancholy of his children. It is early morning on a Saturday, Dad was home and cooking his stupendous hash-browns. Bacon and eggs were sizzling on a second griddle and the smells wafting in under the door were driving me mad with hunger. Dad was trying to earn brownie points with me as I could hear “Swinging” by John Anderson blaring from the big stereo in the living room. Slowly I grab a pair of blue jeans and pull them on, grab my necklace and ring. Dressed and no longer feeling naked without my ring, I paint my smile of conformity on my face and prepare for another day of lies and avoidance. I place my hand on the round silver door-handle, and pull hard against the sticky jam. “Good morning.”

Memoir Setting Revised

My gloomy prison cell is adorned with a single beat up black Stetson that doubles as an air freshener. Once a week I sneak into the bathroom to steal an Old Spice bottle and refresh the smell. It’s my favorite scent in the world, one that I miss now in isolation. My forgotten room has a perpetual chill in the air as the heater, two rooms down, doesn’t quite reach. Sadly, I no longer notice it as I move to pick up my senior key and class ring. Both worn as a shield against the world and a reminder that soon my sentence shall be up. I turn to the plain brown door that separates me from the harsh reality of my world, and cringe at what lays beyond. A disgusted stepmother caring for her toddling son. My younger brother, now a chosen mute, sitting in a chair quietly waiting for breakfast to end and an oblivious dad frying his stupendous hash browns like every Saturday morning. Except, today is different. This is the first Saturday since my step-mom said, “I like it better without you or your brother here.” If it wasn’t for my starving hunger pain, and the mouthwatering smell of bacon, eggs and, god, those delicious hash browns I wouldn’t leave my room. I would be content with staying in my room and hiding from her. I second-guessed going out to eat, to stay with my drool stained Accounting homework but then my ears picked up on the one thing that would drag me out. “Swinging” by John Anderson comes on the radio and I know dad is trying to coax me out with my song. I take a deep breath, paint a happy smile on and prepare for another day of lies and avoidance. I place my hand on the door handle and pull hard against the sticky jam. “Good morning.”