The Dark Room

Hello...

So, I'm in my classroom. And we're asked to describe the room we are sitting in, and are given forty minutes in which to write it. We were told to be imaginative. Please, view the result... which, strangely, is no longer a mere description...

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I don’t remember dad anymore. He had once seemed so close to me, but now I could barely remember his face. But I could remember his eyes; those deep, piercing eyes.

It is dark here. I can still hear the clock in the hallway ticking slowly – even though the hard panel oak door usually blocked all sound. Perhaps I was paying too much attention to other small details, rather than the matter at hand. I had only ever been here once; I knew that my mother had forbidden me to enter – but I had to know. The memories I seek flow in the inky blackness of my mother’s dark room.

As I move further in, I can see, through squinting eyes, that trays line the side of the room; and, inside them, photographs float in a mysterious liquid – mother is developing her memories again; and her keepsakes; and all those other small glimpses of what life used to hold. It seemed that, not so long ago, my family had been so close – so perfect – yet now, the family has fallen to pieces. Rather like the pieces of a photograph, that now lie in front of my feet.

I examine them with longing – the picture itself is of my fifth birthday, all those years ago. It was I who had ripped them into the three rough pieces, more out of frustration than any actual disliking for the picture. I had looked, searched again and again, every face, every object – but he wasn’t on there. I couldn’t find my father.

My eyes have now adjusted to the darkness, and I can now make out the objects on the walls; cameras, of all shapes, sizes and ages. I can recall nearly every one from a certain event, where my mother had used it to capture a fleeting memory. However, the crass, disappointing reality is that there is nothing to remind me of who my father is.

A knife; gleaming, even in the dim light of the photography room – it lies, callously, near the back of the room. As I pick it up, I cradle it in my hands; then, eventually, a realisation hits me – one too shocking to be true.

I remember – if only in snippets – my mother cowering by the kitchen table. A man stood over her, laughing; I did not recognise him - my imagination seemingly created him from nowhere. He stood over her, holding this knife – the very one I have now placed down on the floor, in apprehension. I stand, bewildered, as memories flow through me, like photographic visions – this man grins manically, as he lunges forward with the knife; my mother reaches for the nearest object, a glass bottle, and smashes it over his head; the man falls back unconscious; I think this man is my dad.

I fear to recall any more, but I cannot control it – the final images float to the forefront of my mind, and suddenly my blood runs cold; I watch as my mother reaches for the knife, now lying abandoned on the floor, and plunges it aggressively into his heart. I remember now, as I stood watching through the crack in the door on that forgotten day, that she shed a tear afterwards. One, single tear. That moment is replaying in my mind, again, and again – that tear, falling from her cheek. Yet, even now, I do not know why she cried that tear. Was it for my father? Or was it out of shock?

One final item lies ahead. It is a picture, small and beautifully formed. I know this picture, and I know when it was taken – just two years ago, in the park near my house. I am sitting, laughing, on a bench with my mother next to me. A smile; a laugh that had filled me with joy - so I had once felt happiness...

My father was on this picture once. He had sat next to my mother – I remember it now as if it had happened yesterday. It is no surprise, to me at least, to find that he is no longer there. The knife I had placed on the floor is covered in the mysterious liquid my mother uses to develop these pictures. Mother had cut my father from the picture.

Mother had cut my father from my memories.