White Prison – Short Story #3

She had never woken up at this hour before. Maybe she did, but that time of her life has long passed and she can’t remember it. They gave her pills every night so she wouldn’t wake up at this hour, so she wouldn’t ever be alone with no one to watch over her every move. This time she didn’t swallow the pills like she used to every night. She put the glass of water to her lips, but didn’t gulp the tasteless, bland liquid down. She had been here for so long she doubted they even thought that she could try something like that. They don’t know a thing about her. How can they say they’re healing her when they don’t know what’s wrong with her in the first place? The room is so white. She always hated this color. White is peaceful. White is quiet. White is everything she isn’t. The world outside is black. That’s where she should be. That’s where she blends in. There are locks and cameras everywhere. She can never get out, unless she heals. Maybe she is and she doesn’t know what it feels like. Surely she is better now that they keep her alive on wires and little pills in orange bottles. There is a fruit bowl on the bedside table. It’s doing a painfully bad job to hide the huge stack of reports and wires. Ironically, the fruits here taste disgusting. This feels like old times, when she was reckless and crazy. She rebelled without a cause, without a reason. Well, that’s what they all thought. There were reasons; she would tell if they asked. If they asked. She stayed out late just so that they would worry about her. She shut her door all the time because she wanted them to open it and ask her what’s wrong. She cried all day so that they would wipe her tears. “We’re doing this because we love you,” they had said when they left her here. Love can’t be that oblivious. Sitting up, she picked up the glass of water next to her, emptied it on her bed and smashed it on the floor. A lady came in, and shook her head on seeing the mess. “Bad dreams, sorry.” The lady scooped her up and dumped her on the sofa as she stripped off the sheets from the bed and ran out to get new ones. She returned with a dustpan. She fixed the bed and cleaned up the glass from the floor. Soon, the room was like it was before, and she left. She should’ve noticed. She should’ve done her job. She should’ve turned around and seen how the little girl’s hands were still clutched around a particularly sharp piece of glass.

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