Scruffy worn carpet clung loosely to the creaky floor boards; the edge where fabric meets wall was fraying. A grotesque red stain stuck to the fibres, clinging together for companionship. In sombre, I sat staring at the imperfection on the floor. It was much like me; a stain.
Blinding pink paint was generously coated on the high walls, accompanied by an obnoxious photo of an old man with a toothy grin. In bold letters under the picture lay the phase, "Trust me!". The man was wearing a formal violet suit, cream shirt and a red and white polka dot tie.
Drearily, a spring prone mattress sat upon the ground in the middle of the room, there were no furniture except my resting place. It was just me, my thoughts... and them. I hear no voices; no song was sung for me here. They stay quiet, maybe to taunt me. I don't know. There were three doors; two were painted over with the same sickening pink that lined the walls. Maybe it stuck the door shut. I wouldn't know. I never dare check. Not out of place was multiple locks attached to the remaining door (not on my side of the door obviously). They kept me locked up but it didn't stop them from taking me out for my job.
I stood up from the ground, rising to attention, when I heard slow footsteps in the hall.
I'll just stand here, waiting, being a good girl.
