The Magic of Painted Creek by Robyn Kilgore

The alarm clock crashed to the floor as I smacked at it for the last time. “I’m leaving that damn thing here,” I grumbled to myself. I felt crazy for having such strong feelings about an inanimate object, but I hated that alarm clock. Sitting upright and running my hands down my face, I felt more like a zombie than a human girl. Woman.

Whatever.

Unfortunately, I’d missed the off button for the alarm and the clock’s fall from the table hadn’t broken it or ripped the plug from the wall, so it was still happily wailing away from under the bed. And it didn’t sound muted. Oh no, now it somehow seemed to reverberate through the entire room as if the under bed acoustics were the perfect amplifier for my morning agony. Flipping myself over the edge of the bed and hanging upside down, I yanked the cord from the wall and huffed in relief at the sudden silence. Calling on core strength I absolutely did not have, I wriggled upright and collapsed back into the pillows.

In the sudden stillness, I took a moment to really look around my bedroom in the apartment I’d had for the last five years, the first place I could call my own when I moved out of my mother’s house. Looking at it now though, I wondered if I really could call it mine. I paid the rent and other bills, sure, and maintained my responsibilities, and theoretically made all the decisions. But I felt no sense of “me” in this space. The walls were a dull builder grade beige, as was the carpet. Hell, even my comforter was a slightly darker shade of beige. The only pop of personality in the room was my dark purple sheets, and even they were hidden away when the bed was made.

My mother had helped me choose the apartment, and all the things in it, when she finally conceded to my desire to move out at twenty years old. I had been financially self sufficient for a couple years, I was lucky in that way. My painting business had really taken off right after high school, and in a mere year I had acquired a nice little nest egg that continued to grow while I still lived at home.

I shook my head, not wanting to mentally relive the fights we’d had when I told her I wanted a place of my own. But I couldn’t help but wonder as I looked around my bedroom if this is what I would have chosen for myself. Even the artwork, now carefully wrapped up and ready to move, was bland and muted in color. Neutral. Safe.

I glanced back over at the offending alarm clock. My mother had even gifted me that alarm clock, saying that productive people got their day started early. “You started this.” I narrowed my eyes, pointed at it, and huffed. I realized the clock probably sounded louder because the room was now almost completely empty, and therefore echoey, not because the electronic device was actually yelling at me.

After one more second of reflection, and one more glare at the clock, I squared my shoulders and got out of bed. “No time like a new beginning to change your interior design choices. And I’m more productive at night anyway.” With that, I headed to the shower, vowing to leave the alarm clock and all things beige behind in the move.