0300

Stark White Life

The only way to deal with an un-free world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.

- Nelson Mandela

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     I could say that I lived a perfect life. That I can do whatever I want any time I want. That I have all the freedom in the world. But that would be the biggest lie of the century.

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     It is 0700. My internal alarm clock has awoken me yet again, in its never ending mission to keep me from getting over ten hours of sleep.

     My bed is cold, like always. I always wish for it to be warm when I wake up, for it to have absorbed my body heat, for it let me feel it. But all warmth is gone. I'll never feel the touch of a warm hand, body, place, ever again.

     I lie in bed for what seems like hours, staring at the stark white ceiling. I think about how things used to be, the good old days. When I heard people talk and laugh and saw people smile and touch. I seriously need to stop living in the past, though. Those days are over. They are never coming back.

     It has been long enough, a few minutes is all I need to wake up.

     I sit up, throw the covers off of my body, exposing my bare legs and arms to air even colder than the sheets on the bed.

     It doesn't take long for me to make the bed, I do it every morning.

     Donald has left me a note on top of my clothes, I see. I have given the clothing-leaver a name. It brings a small amount of comfort, just to know a name.

     The small pile of clothes consists of a stark white nylon t-shirt, matching stark white running shorts, two pairs of stark white socks, a stark white one-piece bathing suit, eye goggles, stark white running shoes, a stark white t-shirt, stark white pants, and stark white underclothes.

     Next to the clothing lies two neatly folded, stark white towels.

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     My, "Home," is very simple.

     My bed sits next to the wall. On the wall to the left of it is a door without a knob, and a small desk that I find my clothes and towels on every day. The small table has two drawers in it, each five by two inches with a small, round knob made of some sort of rock. The first drawer holds a pad of paper, five pencils, and one eraser. The second drawer doesn't open.

     The wall to the right of my bed is empty. Where the last wall would be is an empty space, leading to the eleven-foot-deep pool, the quarter-mile running track, the work-out room, the shooting range, and single bathroom.

     Everything is stark white.

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     I get ready for the day in ten minutes. My hair is in a tight bun. My teeth are clean. I wear the running clothes and push my night clothes down the shoot.

     I smell toast and eggs and sausage, so I walk back to The Desk in my bedroom and sit down in front of it. A small plate sits in front of me, holding my only food source and a large glass of water. I eat quickly.

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     There is a small slot in The Door and a small, lidless container below it where mail would drop into. Every morning I stare at it, hoping to see something in it. There never is. This morning is the same.