Alone In Madness

02

Underwhelming. By definition: when something fails to impress or positively impact someone; to disappoint.

More or less, that's how the cold room presented itself. Pristine white linen covering a fresh single mattress, joined only by a pillow and a bedside table. Upon closer look, the only blanket provided had little holes in it, and the sheets were attached to the mattress. In the opposing wall was a built in wardrobe, empty and ready to be filled with the few sweaters and pyjama bottoms Harry brought along to the hospital.

Nodding to the guard, quietly thanking him, he stepped further into the room and immediately favoured the bed closest to the window, putting down his two bags and walking back to the centre of the room.

Maybe that bed would be better because it's closer to the door? What if there's a fire? With shaky footsteps that echoed in the empty room, he walked back to the window, breath hitching as his fingers met the cold glass. Harry scanned for the handle, quickly grasping it and pushing at it, fumbling as it wouldn't open. It wouldn't open. Then it dawned on Harry.

"The windows aren't opening."

A mere whisper into the suffocating air left him breathless, clutching at his collar and instinctively dragging it away from his throat. Of course the sweatshirt wasn't the culprit of his loss of breathing, but it felt better to be able to pretend that it was a physical problem. That way, he had control.

Blond strands fell over blue oceans, which were immediately pushed away. Then again. Over and over until it became a coping mechanism. Eventually, he was able to time his breathing with the pattern of stroking his hair, and everything became regulated again.

A sigh escaped into the room (it was still too quiet) and he sunk down onto his claimed mattress with closed eyes, shifting one of his bags to do so. As he opened his eyes to a deafening sound of silence, he was reminded of something. Reaching down into the pocket of his trousers, he rummaged around to retrieve two wireless earphones.

After they successfully connected with his phone, he pushed one into each ear, allowing himself to relax as 'The Front Bottoms' played, the loud music filling the empty space.

It wasn't long before his eyes began to drift shut, unable to stay awake as the night progressed, finding unusual comfort in the stiff mattress and dull room. This was understandable, it was nearing nine-thirty at night and he had spent the whole day listening to rules and important information.

A knock resounds throughout the room, the only warning that the door was about to fly open to reveal another boy. Shorter than himself but rivalling in uncertainty, he steps into the room and sets his only bag onto the bed, unzipping it without making eye contact. Harry sits up, examining the way the boy seems to be so sure of what he's doing - so organised but yet so awkward doing it. He watched as the pillow is stuffed neatly into a plain black and yellow case, then propped neatly onto the matching blanket.

It's only when the boy starts to move to the wardrobe, unpacking neat clothes and hanging up a jacket, when Harry realises he should be doing that same.

Embarrassed, he hops up on unsteady feet and opens both his bags, ripping the contents straight onto his bed. Eyes watch him due to the commotion, but it's only a brief second until they're gone again. (The other boy was curious as to Harry's unpacking method, but wouldn't dare to ask).

Once all of his clothes were thrown into the draws, sweaters hung on the rail, he took ahold of his blue patterned blanket. Nervously, his eyes went to the other boys bed.