She ripped down the curtain disguising the featureless bulkhead. It fluttered gracefully to the floor before she grabbed it and tore it into shreds. Decorative pillows were thrown off the bed and the sheets were militarily straightened. She paused looking at the ruined fabric. This wouldn’t do. She left and returned hauling a box and a large trash bag. She stuffed the fabric into the bag and put the pillows into the box. The lamp was thrown in the trash bag. It made a satisfying crunch when it landed. The handful of trinkets was tossed into the box. The more delicate ones actually getting placed instead of thrown. The rug she picked up and methodically tore into strips before tossing the ribbons into the trash. Posters and prints were ripped and trashed. The result was a smooth grey capsule of a room. All individuality washed out as if it had never been. Just the curved alien lines of a ship that was not her home. No matter what she’d done. No matter what she changed. This wasn’t her place. She’d been in too many places like it.
She sank onto the bunk and wrapped her arms around her knees as the similarity to the facility sank in. When the hot tears came she didn’t fight them, she lowered her head to the top of her knees and let herself weep. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.
Hours later, she took out the trash bag. When she returned, she packed up the box, grabbed her running bag, and walked out of the room. She couldn’t be done with the place. She needed the resources and the safety. But it was more than time to move out.
I stole an unsettling room from a machete wielding diplomat. Keep an eye out for other thefts.