Room of Despair

As I walk down the hallway, I prepare for a scene of carnage. A scene of such absolute horror that even Arnold Schwarzenegger would tremble with fear. A sight so frightening, that even Hitchcock, the master of suspense, would hand over his camera and admit defeat. Yes, I am about to the enter the room of a teenager.

With my faithful cleaning kit beside me, I put on the protective overalls, pull down the face shield and make sure that my breathing apparatus is working. Why the protection you ask? These rooms are dark places. Do I dare to go into the dark beyond the door? With a gentle push, the door starts to open. Then, with a mighty shove, I am able to wedge my way inside to see the room of despair. I stumble across the room to where a window was last seen and open the blinds. It is at this point that anything alive in the room scurries away from the sunlight (obviously these are nocturnal creatures). I can now see the full depth of what lies before me and it is worse than anticipated.

Clothes. Not just any clothes, but ones that due to copious amounts of teenage sweat and dirt are able to stand on their own and now look more like muppets on steroids. Socks. Be careful. These are strategically positioned to cause frustration and make you vulnerable to an attack. Wait! Is that the remains of what was once a neatly made, sheets tucked in, pillow plumped bed that lies before me? The doona is carefully draped off to an angle and covers part the floor. Why I ask myself? Careful lifting of the doona brings to the surface my greatest fear. Leftovers. Yes, here lies a plate of what was at some stage food but has now taken on the look of something the cat dragged in two months ago. Thank goodness for the gas mask.

I realise now that the job is too big. My trusty bottle of spray and wipe is not going to be enough. I need to a high pressure cleaner, 44 gallons of room freshener and a backhoe to even get close to making a dent in what occupies the space at the end of the hallway. As I carefully back away from the horrors that appear before me, I say to myself, 'perhaps next week'. Maybe by then I will have recovered from the nightmares and have a support team on hand that, should I collapse from exhaustion or be attacked by whatever lives in there, will be able to drag me out by my ankles and back to the light.