White Walls

There I sat. My arms were tight by my side. I was in a white room with white walls waiting on white people in white clothing and white shoes that echoed off of the white floor when they stepped, the sound echoing onto the white ceiling making their presence known as I sat in my white jacket.

No sooner had I had the thought before they scurried into the room, like rats in an experiment…I was the cheese.

They stared at me. All four of them. I had a response to each question they asked.

“How are you?” asked the lady with the red hair.

“I’m feeling great. How are you?” I replied. I smiled.

“What emotion are you feeling today?” asked the oldest of the group—a male with gray hair.

“Anger. Fuck you. Let me see the sun,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. My veins pulsed.

“What have you eaten today?” asked the man who was holding a brown paper bag.

“A white pill,” I answered. I shrugged.

“Why are you here?” asked the observer who was scribbling in red on a white paper.

“Because of you,” I answered. I scowled.

Two of the scientists left—leaving me with the observer and the man with the paper bag.

“Do you know what is in this bag?” asked the man.

“I hope it is some water because you look dehydrated,” I said.

The observer scribbled furiously in red. I liked red. It matched my thoughts.

“What do you look like?” asked the man.

In my mind, I had imagined myself to be white like the people around me, white black-blonde hair and tan-pale skin with brown-blue eyes and a tall-short frame.

“A person,” I spat.

The white man with the brown hair and the brown bag pulled out a silver mirror and held it up for me to see my reflection.

I was right. I was tan-pale. I had black-blonde hair. I was tall-short. And my eyes were brown-blue.

“What do you look like?” asked the man again. The white note taker wrote furiously with her blue pen.

“If you keep writing that fast, the white paper will turn red.”

“What do you look like?” asked the man again.

“ I am tan-pale with black-blonde hair and brown-blue eyes with a tall-short frame.”

The white note taker laughed and wrote down some more red words onto the paper.

The man asked, “Why do you keep contrasting yourself.”

I was confused. “The voices in my mind told me that.”

The two looked at each other. “The voices?” they asked.

“Yes.”

The pair immediately left the room.

They returned with a black man in a black suit and black shoes.

“Hello, sir. How are you?” he asked me.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Just to talk.”

I laughed. “Why?”

“I need to know if you remember your name?”

“Which one?” I asked.

His pupils widened and he left the room. He did not return. I remained in the white room with the white walls and the white floor and the white ceiling for days and weeks and months and years.

My thoughts were red. I waited to release them.

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