A silent bed, half unmade. One side smoothed perfectly, sharp edges, sleek slate. Layers upon layers neatly tucked away, asking not to be touched. The other side crumpled, wrinkled sheets thrown across the the surface, layers peeking out here and there in a chaotic swirl, a crispy mess of what-goes-where swallowing itself up and begging for attention. The cold bed sits there alone, empty, only sometimes half filled. Cars pass by at all hours, lights flash, shudders screen out the too bright world. This room isn't a part of the house, it has no pulse. It's not alive. It simply lays there hiding, afraid to be seen by working eyes. I hold my breath as I walk through, keeping it from sucking the life out of me. It sits and spends its few remaining days already dead.