The Red Room
Jerrod sat in his little Red Room one evening. He had the good vinyls on. Dean Martin, Buddy Holly, Ms. Fitzgerald. His Red Room was where Jerrod went when he wanted to escape everything. It was quiet, pristine, and overall, filled with glorious silence. The room Jerrod loved so much was decorated just as he liked: red wallpaper, red shag carpeting, and red trinkets and knick-knacks filled the room's various nooks and crannies. Jerrod got up and poured himself a nice small glass of brandy. Those who knew Jerrod knew he wasn't a heavy drinker, but he would drink if something had left him rather angry.
Jerrod sat square on the nice, comfy leather chair he had dyed red. His sunglasses glinted off the sun that came in the red tinted window, filling the room with a blood red shadow. Jerrod's suit was a simple polyester, red of course. As Buddy Holly sang about loved he had hoped would soon come his way, Jerrod was falling asleep. Jerrod dozed off in his Red Room and would not wake up until the next day's Blood shadow struck the window. He woke with a start as his nightmares were once again filled with alcoholic ramblings and memories he seemed to always seem to remember at the worst time. The Buddy Holly vinyl skipped on "rollercoaster" until Jerrod's stupor had worn off enough so he could move without a migraine in his step. His suit was dirtied with vomit and spilled brandy. He looked at the clock and sobered up instantly.
Jerrod sighed. His day would soon begin. He knew it's never a good idea to stay in the Red Room too long. He glared at the stairwell we soon have to ascend. He looked at the Red Room's simple design, its simple decor, and its simple simplicity. Jerrod had spent 5 years rebuilding the Red Room from scratch after the Incident. Jerrod's strange life had been peppered with tragedy and nuclear detonation. His family and friends were all gone. His last bits of his identity went into this Red Room. He rebuilt it from the ground up, even went into the husk that was Detroit and found his favorite vinyls. The new "government" was an aristocracy about as rich as a scheming con man. Made of creatures that had the audacity to call themselves humans. Humans were beautiful, free creatures. These things were a hive mind under the impression that they had a sliver of free will. They had called for the preivous dominant race's extinction. And Jerrod Gerris was the last in Detroit that had shown any form of free will. Jerrod heard his door fly down the stairwell as Frank Sinatra sang of his sorrows for the last time.