(To Intro Pt. 1)
3.
A traditional living room would be the gathering place, where a household group congregated to do things of the familial nature; watch television, play games, read aloud story hours or sit and talk about the events of the day. The heart of The Palace was an arena stage room, built like a left atrium, with wings that pinioned into single bedrooms, arteries to the head of the house and upper appendages. It was a place not unlike every other room in the upstairs apartment where the people read, sang songs, wrote and painted, played games and talked. The only thing that made this room slightly unique was a giant black box with a one-way window, neither solid nor liquid, that sat on a shelf and bleated colors and sound occasionally. Every room in The Palace was a congregation room, wherever particular people played. Every room, except one. He passed the doorway recalling the last conversation with the lost roommate, something about the prejudice against the Afghani population of America.
Her room, the first bedroom, left stage, after the left subclavian ARTorRE room of Mexico, was the left common carotid ARTorRE room. A twin bed was tucked beside an interior window to the sweet South of the border hide out. Dawning in plaque yellow light dulling from a ceiling fixture and covered with green and purple bedding like an aneurism, clotting in the corner, growing across the bedroom floor with every messy day it went usurped. When the double doors were opened The Palace heart dazzled upon the fresh bright white painted fireplace. It shimmered like an ivory tower. On that night like most, its darkness vacuumed deeper beyond the drapery of tightly closed doors.
The next doors were always open. With two beds, an array of posters and pictures on the walls, books and clothes piled on the floor. A striped couch was lined against one wall. On the far end of the couch was a small drafting desk that housed a computer and more books. A crude light was fixed nearby to add a little speak-easy feel. The first bed closest to the desk was a single mattress and box springs mounted to a metal frame with several thin blankets and a comforter. The bed opposite was a slug of a queen mattress snug in the corner by a window and covered in comforters for no more warmth than comfort.
This room might have been a dining area for the traditional family in its primitive years. A swinging door led from the back of the room into a hall past the Man-Bath and into the kitchen. The “Man-Bath” had been dubbed such for the occupants of The Palace consisted of both male and female, non which that compared any genetic similarities, therefore it was only politeness that allowed one bath to be used for its male components and the other for its females, though the other bath was rarely referred to as the “Woman-Bath”. Recently it had been converted into a den of multi-colored cartoons representing those known as The Power Puff Girls, in what appeared to be the smucous of a Technicolor-yawn initiated by Crayola’s box of 64.
This was where the young man was headed; through the swing door past the Man-Bath (avoiding the puce pussy room by a long shot) and into the kitchen, then out the back door onto the balcony where he sat at a large table fashioned from a giant tree trunk. The table was a redwood relic discovered in the patio storage and removed for protection of a bicycle. The young man relaxed and began to write.
Bully
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