Descriptive Essay

            The room has one window; it looks out to the side of another building. The room has one light; it flickers on and off periodically. The room is painted a dull beige, and as I swing the rickety door open, the smell of mold floods into my nostrils, practically overwhelming every sense. The room has one couch, small with deflated cushions that eats me as I sink into it. The room is cold; my breath forms clouds around my mind. I sit, and I wait. The room was never a place I wanted to be, a place to talk about depression that was just as dark and icy as my thoughts. The room had a clock; a clock that hang on the wall next to a crack, its second hand seeming like it moved at the rate of a sloth crossing the road. I sat and watch the hand tick, and tick, and tick, and I waited for the darkness to fade. As the session went on, the light flickered four times a minute. I sat and watched it counting the seconds between. I watched her speak, she spoke slow, she spoke gentle, she spoke as if I was dumb. Every couple of minutes, a beam of light would reflect off the adjacent building and shine into the room, but the light always went away within a few seconds. The bitterness of the room.

            But finally it was the last few minutes. At this point however my arms has goose bumps running up them. But it was now time, time to leave. I opened the door nob, the knob freezing cold to touch. I walked out of the room, and finally I could breath.