Adiah
Duncan

A diamond in the rough. The ones that are overlooked. Comfort in the night. With us, during times when we have nothing, and during times when we have everything. The bed has been inhabited for three years. The bed is a significant. There during every season.

“You can’t do this! You can’t do that!” the woman, who is supposed to be a mother, continuously shouts. Always disappointed nothing will ever be enough for her. A mother’s overbearing control. The air is sticky and the humidity syrupy. Flopping onto the bed, full of pent-up frustration. The bed is such a mess. It is embarrassing to see. Tensions ease as the firm yet comfortable mattress engulfs. The fluffed pillows allowing a scream to be muffled. The black metal guard rail, cooling skin. A sour, citric smell burning a nose. Tapestry, posters, art, and memories envelope the bed. Varieties of color. Music by Falling in Reverse, Pierce the Veil, and Sleeping with Sirens play. A person lays on top of a furry white blanket. Falling asleep becomes easier than it has ever been. 

“I want more.” Jim says it as if a soul is not already being sacrificed. His face behind a screen, it’s easier to be bold. Used and defeated. The beginning of regrets. Holding onto a black blanket with rough golden stars, for dear life. The white and orange pillow soaking in every tear. Difficult to breath even in a bed that is gentle. The smell of a twisted peppermint wallflower. A scent perfect on this cold December night. A chilly breeze attempts to creep under a multitude of blankets. Listening to songs like “bad idea!” by girl in red and “will I always feel this way?” by instant crush to ease the loneliness. The thoughts flowing through the cotton sheets. Sheets of innocence with child-like pattern to them. Sleep becomes deep with a silent wish to never wake up again.

“Good night,” Oscar says in his usual good night text. A personality is added to the walls surrounding the child-like bed. The bed’s colors become brighter. Lying down, looking up toward the tapestry hanging above, Starry Night by Van Gogh. The changing of leaves attached to the brown branches that hit the window with the occasional breeze. Blueberry pancake perfume permeates the oxygen. A favorite scent. One that has been missed. A fragrance that ran out. A slight smell that is still enmeshed within the blankets. A bed that is up late. Watching the latest episode of his favorite anime. The episodes that will soon be left in the queue. Listening to “immature” music. Anime openings and summer playlists. Not wanting to sleep.

“I want to show you something, but I’m not sure if you’d like it,” spill across Isaiah’s screen. What seemed gentle became used. The words that became an unending need for validation. The bed appears to be worn out and creaks at the slightest move. A blanket hangs off the side rail. Sheets letting loose corners. Began in January and it continues. Validation is still nagging as it soaks into the walls, becoming contextualized then ignored. Too many scents to tell what is what. Cardi B. and Doja Cat attempting to boost the mood while the surrounding art is becoming more intense. A drawing representing body dysmorphia hanging above the many pillows. A drawing of a girl. A tear. Her face. Taped above the rough brown fabric of a curtain, trapped behind the cold black guard rail. Wishing for sleep, yet the comfort of the bed unable to help.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” read Jordan’s sweet words. The opportunity to express. The opportunity to listen and to be heard. The bed never felt so welcoming. Finally, conversations of personal matters. Finally, recollections of the past. The bed hears all as the built-up emotions contained within the bedding, within the walls, and within the art being slowly released. The clean aroma of Tide emanating from the newly washed sheets. The smell of freshly cut grass flowing from the slightly opened window. The colors of blossoming flowers, seen as the rough curtains are shoved away. Soft music playing a sweet tune almost matches a bird chirping on an early morning. The soft blankets wrapped around. The bed sinking at a touch. This season passes with no regrets. Okay with how the bed is made. Falling into a deep slumber. 

“Fill me in,” Ava calls and texts every second. Always talkative. The bed seems lighter when her voice is heard. The gentle bounce when changing seating positions. Sitting on top of the soft blankets or burrowing under them, using an orange and white pillow for support. The opening sound of Minecraft playing for hours. The weather is hot, but it does not feel sticky. The bed is relaxing, warming. A cucumber fragrance, hooked to the bed.  Peculiar, however, it is enough to make a nose dance. Nights with the bed become fun, and the amount of sleep varies, a well-rested sleep no matter the amount.

“I like how I can be silly goofy with you,” Nathan speaks aloud. His voice, heard through the phone. A personality shining through the well-made bed. A bed with the blankets folded nicely and the pillows set in a perfect layout. Running a hand along the poster hanging beside the bed as the ever-glowing talks with Nathan persist. A silly poster of My Hero Academia. A poster that is smooth. A goofy bed spread of Naruto with a matching pillow. Three other pillows alongside it. Three more blankets hidden under the large thick comforter. A smell that perfectly describes home. Fun music plays. Lifts the spirit. Songs by MKTO, Michael Jackson, and Bruno Mars. The bed hears the calls every single night wanting sleep, but okay if there is none. 

There is no season without a bed. A bed that reflects every mood and every desire. This bed does not have to be the bed.