The room is neutral. There are defining features to this room. A few photographs of his nieces and nephews are placed above his bed. His bed is the defining feature. It creaks. It is covered in a cream and brown duvet that always smells like washing up powder. She likes it. It is comforting. It is a home. It is a cold day. She visits him after college; it is about 3 or 4 pm. She has left her printmaking lesson early in order to see him, she often does this. His days off are few and far between. He is going to cook her dinner tonight for the first time, she is excited. He has been to Lakeside in the day and has purchased new sheets and a lovely king sized duvet in the day. It replaces the tiny, quite groggy single duvet that he once had, it was always a battle between the two to who would get the majority of the duvet. He normally wins; she is normally very shy and doesn’t feel right stealing his duvet away from him when she still does not know him all that well. She liked his new duvet. It is warm and snugly and still has that lovely fresh new smell. Its clean, no stains from his late night takeaways or ash from the roll ups that he smokes. It is perfectly made. It is neat, It is tidy It is warm. She adores it; she wants to sleep in it permanently. He cannot keep it up. He gets frustrated. Angry. He jumps of the bed and start storming around the room, demanding answers to questions she is unable to answer. He throws himself on the bed and the pillow flips up and hits the side of a girls face. The tension is building and the girl is unable to handle it. She does not like arguments, she cannot cope with anger. She curls up onto the side of the bed and cries. He begins to cool down, and after a few minutes realizes he has upset her. She cries out of frustration and she is scared it is her fault. He strokes her hair and rubs her back, whispering quietly into her ear and declares how he finds her attractive, how he likes her, and how it is definitely not her fault. On the lives of his mother, his brothers, his friends. She does not believe him. The crying continues for a small period of time till she is too tired. She is sullen and sulky and he senses it. The atmosphere is tense. He turns on the television and begins to watch a film on channel 3. She is not interested. She cuddles up to him and he places his hand on the small of her back. She takes in her surroundings: she adores his room, the lived in clutter, the creaky double bed and the cream and brown duvet that spells delicious, like washing conditioner. She wants to cuddle in the bed and never leave; she wants him to want her there. She tried to speak: stuttering. She can sense him getting frustrated as she can never get the words out, and if she does, they always come out wrong. He threatens to tickle her if she does not tell him; he runs his fingers down her arms to reinforce this threat. She does not believe him. He climbs on top of her, pinning her arms and hands above her head, using his legs to hold hers down and tickles her until she is begging, screaming for him to stop.
They are arguing again. They are always fighting. Today is the worse fight they have ever had. They are screaming at each other. All she asked was an innocent question and she does not understand why he has flipped out in this way. It is scaring her. She keeps trying to kiss him and his lips remain firmly shut. She persists, kissing him one, two, three, four times before giving up. She leaps up off of his bed, and throws the duvet that she had just cleaned for him on the floor. He looks puzzled for a moment and then starts asking what the fuck she is doing. She blames him, screams at him, asks him what the fuck he is playing at and demanding to know why he would not kiss her back. He blames her for ruining the moment and also her mood, and this only fuels her anger. She starts to throw her clothes back on and inform him that she may as well fuck off home if that is how he going to talk to her. Later, when she looks back at this she will realize what a complete and utter pillock she was. He tries to talk to her, and tells her not to leave but she runs downstairs, claiming to need some air. She shuts herself into the bathroom like a little girl and bawls her eyes out, sitting on the toilet and holding her knees as she cries, unable to control her negative emotion and her tears. After a minute she hears him walking down the stairs, the kitchen door opening and then a tapping on the door as he asks to come in. The door opens. He crouches in from of her, trying to hold her hand, and tells her he is sorry. In reality, he has nothing to be sorry for but she is in a heightened sense of emotion and there is no reasoning with her. He tries to get her to kiss and cuddle her but she pushes him away, her negative body language is more than obvious. She pushes past him to run upstairs, and like a spoilt little brat cuddles up on his duvet, pulling it over her head and sobbing. She hears a door opening. he is sitting next to her now and there is so much tension in the room it is so unbearable. He tells her to grow the fuck up. All she wants is for him to cuddle her. She wants him to stroke her hair and kiss her forehead and hold her till she stops crying. She cannot see anything apart from the cream duvet that is over her eyes. Her chest feels tight so she runs back down to the bathroom. The boy is now ignoring her completely, this only adds to her frustration. She is sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor now. If his bedroom is warm and welcoming, this room is cold and cluttered. The cold floor tiles feel cool on the back of her denim short clad legs. She cannot breathe now. She wants nothing more for him than to come downstairs and look after her but he is leaving her to it. Her chest feels tight and her breathing is rapid. She gets the familiar feel in her stomach and she pushes her head over the toilet bowl and begins to vomit, retching at first and then feels the lumpy consistency and vomits, again and again, gasping for breath. After five or ten minutes of vomiting, he knocks on the door, and realises what a shit state she is in. He sits on the floor on the shower cubicle, almost falling over, and begins to stroke her hair and her face, and kisses a line from her forehead to her chin, joking that he is avoiding her mouth because he doesn’t want to taste her vomit. He takes her up to bed, tucks her into his duvet and kisses her forehead, before heading down the creaky stairs to the kitchen, bringing her back yoghurt he claims will settle her stomach and water to get rid of the vile taste in her mouth. She eats and drinks, and then curls up into the duvet and slowly drifts off to sleep, with the boy stroking her hair. She feels loved.
He has left the downstairs door open for her as he so often does if she is visiting him after work. She hears the pummelling of water in the shower, so she goes upstairs and sits on the edge of his creaky bed to wait for him.



I started off by doing descriptions of the room, in third person of different events that have happened in this room. However I do not think it works because it is quite confusing and I think the idea of asking people to describe it will be much better as I think just one person defining the room is very dull.