Room Four

Room Four is the room in which live all abandoned things. The raw wood of the door has been chipped and chewed by time and wildlife, the red paint more of a chalky memory of itself than an intentional aesthetic. Inside, the edges of the brushed metal walls are burned and oxidized and filmed by blankets of water spots creating a haziness to the air. This is Nicholas' room.

In the center of the gritty space reminiscent of a stereotypical high-end pot dealer's apartment, a futon is embedded in the floor and surrounded by coffee tables. A small cigar box with worn edges sits on one of the many dirty pillows flattened to the overlapping oriental rugs hiding blood stains Nicholas never bothered to clean. The smell of dusty potpourri, nag champa, clove, and spoiled zinc.

The furniture is wooden, stained dark and marred by pale dents and scratches, every mismatched piece the remains of several bombed churches of many different denominations. In the corner of the room, an imposing, stand-alone confessional booth stolen directly from St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Other than that, everything else in the room is as low as Nicholas himself likes to be.

Room Four is our sanctuary, all of us sinners of varying proportions. Nick remembers everything, forgives everything, and helps us forgive ourselves. It's a process good for a clear head as much as a clear conscious, no matter your faith or lack thereof.