I do not remember painting my nails this blueish-turquoise color, and as it seems I do not remember sitting on this leather couch in this family room – nor do I recognize any of it.
I glance at the wooden coffee table in front of me that my feet rest on. There is a book on top of a spiral ring notebook upon the coffee table. “The Softball Pitching Edge”; as I look down at my t-shirt I see the word softball printed in all caps across my chest. My mind is spinning. “When did I pick up softball?”
There is an elegantly painted tissue box that brings about a rustic vibe throughout the room. Its use of deep, red, velvet pillows and hunter green accents in the floral carpet and matching drapes fill the air with a warmth that sets a comforting mood. It is cozy. Old, antique-looking cabinets sit on either side of the long, leather couch I am sitting on. I am facing an enormous, oak cupboard with what I would assume to be a television inside; the doors are closed so I would not know unless I got up myself to open it. But I am too frightened and light headed to do such a thing.
“What is going on?” I find myself saying out loud.
Although I did not have any remote recollection of ending up in this location, it occurs to me that I should not be as frightened as I am. That warmth that vibrates through the very walls of this room tells me I should not be afraid. I am safe here, in this stranger’s home, sitting on their sofa with my feet resting on their coffee table. There is no harm that can come to me, because these are nice people and, for that matter, have a decent taste in sports and velvet pillows.
Out of curiosity, I reach over and open up the spiral notebook. It looks old and the pages are wrinkled from a lot of use. As I open the front cover, there are quotes and different post-its and memorabilia tucked away carefully within the folds of the manila divider. As I continue to turn the pages I realize it is someone’s diary. I am quickly intrigued as I realize this person’s talent and passion for writing.
I feel empowered as I read through its pages although I know I should feel guilty. “Why do these thoughts seem so familiar to me?” My guilty conscience is MIA, but my gut tells me these feelings are mine.