Vanilla

Walls

It is a building of walls.

It is overwhelming, really, how many walls there are. And they are all so white. I feel as though I am in heaven's waiting room, the way the white suffocates everything.

A nurse, by the name of Christie, I think (I was hardly cognizant while she had muttered it earlier), is clicking in front of me in her long white coat and stark red heels. Are they even allowed to wear shoes like that? I would think that would be too distracting.

We walk for what seems like years--though it is truly a matter of minutes--until finally her heels come to a sharp stop in front of a grey door distinguished by the number "219" in block letters. "This is your room. Go ahead and get comfortable. Lunch will be at 2 pm and someone else will tell you what to do from there," she says flatly, her voice displaying just as much emotion as a corpse. Then she gives a nod, a forced smile, and is on her way.

Still slightly delirious from the lack of color in this place, I turn the knob and open the door. I lug my suitcase in, placing it at the foot of the bed. Then I allow myself to analyze my surroundings.

One bed is pushed up against one of the corners, and a dusty window sits about a foot to the left of it. Besides those two things, the only furnishings are a deep oak desk-and-chair pairing (that is crudely nailed to the wall), a digital clock on top of it, and a painting so small I refuse to acknowledge it as deserving of the title "decoration." It depicts a field of daisies.

"Welcome home," I mutter, chuckling to myself.

The clock shows 1:45 so I decide to occupy the fifteen minutes I have by writing in my journal. I have intended to keep a journal for a long time, but haven't had much motivation until now. Now, when I will have less to do even than I had at home with my nonexistent social life, I have chosen writing as a means of detaining insanity.

Because I won't allow myself to spiral any further into my personal black hole. I know therapy it bullshit, but I also know that I can fix myself.

"I've decided to start writing down my thoughts sometimes," I begin. "It's been a long time coming. Today my stomach feels like a shriveled up carcass. I don't know what I'm feeling, to be perfectly honest. A little empty, a little full. My palms have a sheet of sweat on them. My ears are twitching. My--" I stop and close my notebook. Maybe now is not the best time.

I let myself fall back against the bed and stare at the white wall. If only I could just be sucked in.