I think of my childhood bedroom often. The sense of space it provided, the four, white walls colored with posters of people and places that were my life then but mean nothing to me now. The clothes in the hamper, for mother to do later. CDs lining the shelves, and band flags hanging around, with no rhyme or reason. There was no order to that room, but it made sense to me. When I think back on it now, I think of calm, peace, and a feeling I’ve been chasing for years, ever since I moved out. That room changed with me.

So when I wake up in the unfamiliar shed, I first think of my bedroom and the safety it provided. I think of my CDs … and then I see them there, in the corner. I think of a few posters I used to have, and then I see them on the wall, lining even the cieling. Only now, these items don’t provide me with any sense of security or safety. I don’t remember how I got here, and I want only to leave.

I watch as the door knob jingles with someone trying to get in and I don’t make a noise. “Anthony,” they call, singingly. “Anthony, you’re home now.”

It’s the voice of my mother who I haven’t seen in years. I reach out to grab the knob but think twice before turning.

“Anthony,” she says again, only this time the voice is distorted into something I’ve never heard before. “Open the door.”

I sit and wait, knowing that the bedroom wasn’t what I wanted all along: it was the sense of home, and that is now gone.