Story A Loud Room

White walls. Walls so bare and cold and distant they could be made from moon rock. Shifting in and out of focus, my eyes struggle to find some flaw to latch onto; something to give my mind some peace but to no avail. These 4 walls are my pristine prison; so seemingly dainty yet inescapable. How long has it been? One day? A week? Maybe a lifetime has passed me by in this corner of my existence. I force myself up onto my feet from my comfy huddling position. Walk, I tell myself, and I walk. Pacing back and forth in this 7 by 8-foot room. Tracing the perimeter, cutting outlines of my cot and my urinal out of the equation. There are no windows here. There is no day or night. There just is.

I awaken under my cot. How did I get here? How long did I sleep? I look up. No clock. A sigh. Walk, I say again. Getting up, I walk again. The door that led me here bars my attempts to flee. My bed is messy. No one will clean it unless it gets soiled. They must keep these walls white. I wipe my face with my bruised hands, damaged from banging on the walls. A prickly shadow makes me believe days have passed, but I cannot be sure. My white gown suddenly catches on the handle of the door and tears. Great, I mumble aloud, now there will be another investigation. Perhaps food will come soon.

A knock on the door jolts me awake. I am in my cot, so I quickly stumble up and tidy it. A man in a white coat enters. Man, I hate white. He smiles sadly.

“How are you today, David?” He asks, almost too loudly. I flinch. The man writes in a journal in his hands.

“I’m always good, Doc.” I answer back, my voice raspy from disuse. More writing. The doctor moves closer and grabs my wrist, checking for marks. Noticing my bruises, more writing ensues.

“Are you having any suicidal tendencies today?” he asks again. How many times had I heard that question?

“No, Doc. I told you I’m not suicidal.” comes the quick response. He waits as if expecting more from me, then I notice his eyes meeting the torn fabric.

“I can explain…” I start.

“I wish you’d talk to me, David. Let me help you.” He interrupts. I stare.

“I’m not suicidal!” I scream, “those cuts were from my cat and my girlfriend just happened to misunderstand.” It’s no use. He won’t listen. There’s more writing. He smiles at me sadly. That same sad smile, like I’m a wounded animal that needs tending to. I’m human. These white walls know I’m human. The sound of my scream echoes around in my head. I’m not suicidal. I tell myself. The doctor turns towards the door.

“If you want to talk, I’m here.” Comes the simple remark again, before he leaves me alone. Tears well up in my eyes. I grab the sides of my head and huddle, fighting back sobs. I’m not suicidal, I say again. Why won’t anyone listen?

Suddenly a thought enters. Am I even talking? Does anyone hear me? I rock slowly. The white walls continue to stare.

“I’m not suicidal.” I whisper softly, “I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal. I’m not suicidal! I'm not suicidal!” Eventually, I scream. No one comes to the door. I am alone in this loud room.