I could not breathe in that room. It wasn’t the thick summer air that was suffocating it was the spirit of the room, Marcia’s spirit. She had been my college roommate and I had been the last to see her. Looking at this room now I don’t think I really did see her. Light spilled in from between the blind slats. Newspaper clippings and printed articles were pinned up to every wall with words and pictures that were circled or highlighted in red, always red. Bright yellow post-it notes accompanied many of these pieces. At a glance nothing tied together. Glasses half filled with water rested delicately between open books resting on open books with book marks bulging out the pages. Dust hung in the air and had already blanketed everything in the room. I went to flick the lights on but the switch had been taped down, a warning perhaps. She had always been so serious and so cautious, but I didn’t know what any of this could mean.
I looked to the kitchen and found a similar scene. Books and articles had found their way here as well but at least they had managed to keep themselves off of the walls. Cups and bowls flooded the sink and used paper plates spilled out of the garbage can. I don’t know why but I opened the fridge. The lights had been removed and the racks were bare. She was driven but by what burden I do not know.