I trace my fingers along the smoothed wood of the unfamiliar bedpost. It feels wrong. The bed I'm sitting in smells wrong. But then, I wouldn't know what 'right' is.
I can't recall ever being in this room. It looks as though a young child sleeps here.
Am I young? I don't think I am, but if I was old, I would know, wouldn't I?
I can't recall how I got to this room.
I can't remember why I came here.
That is, assuming, I came here myself. But then I would remember. Wouldn't I also remember being brought here?
I try to remind myself of something, anything, as I pace the perimeter of the enclosed room. Hidden under a layer of Disney stickers, the door is ajar, yet it would feel wrong to go through it.
Would it be amiss to open just a few draws, to see if any of the contents helps my thought process? For all I know, these things could be mine. This could all be mine. But I doubt it. The desk is too small for someone aged....
Looking in the mirror, I'd say I'm in my late teens. Or I'm just a small, young-looking, adult. Too big for the fragile stool.
Footsteps, two sets of them, are nearing the door. I nearly drop the minuscule, pink hairbrush as a young child squeals; it sounds happy. Its short footfalls are followed by longer, softer ones. The uneven, short footsteps stop. Right by the door.
Pushing the door open, a small girl with messy corn-braids and a pink dress' eyes widen.
"Daddy? There's a big girl in my room, and she's got my hairbrush." She quavers
The heavier footsteps come to a halt. A large shadow leans on the doorframe.
"What? You weren't supposed to come for another two days yet."