The Room

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in a room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small index card files -- like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read, "Girls That I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards, then quickly shut it in shock as I recognized the names written on each one.

Without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life! Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail that my memory could not match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their contents.

Some brought joy and sweet memories, others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird: "Books I Have Read," to "Lies I Have Told," to "Chores I Have Done," to "Jokes I Have Laughed At."

Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers," or "Days My Clothes Weren't Put Away." Others I couldn't even laugh at: "Times I Broke The Hearts of Those Who Cared About Me," or "Days I Forgot to Even Say Good Morning," or "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents."

I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I had expected; sometimes, fewer than I had hoped.

But when I saw categories such as "Girly Magazines Hidden Under My Mattress," "Habitual Lack of Gratitude," "Nights the Stereo Was Up Too Loud," and "Times That The Garbage Had Not Been Taken Out," an almost animal rage broke within me.

Sickened as I was to think that such moments had been recorded, only one thought dominated my mind. "This is crazy!" I yelled. "This can't continue!"

Enough was enough.

I had not previously suspected the depth of her obsession, but I surely knew who was stalking me, and I had to stop her, now, before things got too far out of control. I had read enough enough Time-Life serial killer books to realize how such relationships could spiral into broken hearts, shattered dreams, and -- eventually -- uncontrollable gut-wrenching violence.

I stormed outside, crossed the porch, and burst through the door on the other side of the duplex. I did not knock or announce my presence. I wanted to surprise her.

I failed miserably. She already knew I was coming and had baked my favorite cookies.

I glared at her from across the kitchen table. "All right, Mom," I said. "I can't take this anymore. The baby pictures and hair clippings were one thing, but this filing card business has gotten out of hand. You've got to end it. Now."

She studied me carefully, then began to scribble something down and filed it under, "Times He Forgot To Wipe His Feet Off Before Coming Inside."

"All right," she lied. "It's finished."

Moral: Three things in life are certain: Death, taxes, and a mother's undying love.

Pit of shame
Read the original version of "The Room."