white white walls

I stare at each thread, each stitch on the walls around me. An entire stretch of fabric across the pads. Buttons fastening it so it stays tight, tight, tight against the wall.
They watch me from the door window. The barred, bulletproof window. Hardly more than 8 by 8 inches. I know that without turning.
They will wait for me to move.
I will not.

Malachi is a patient. He couldn't tell you where, or when he arrived at the hospital because he doesn't know. He doesn't remember.
The white padded walls are his only company. All he hears is the melody that plays constantly in his head, day or night. Dark or light. Never relenting for even a second.
Where it came from? He's not quite sure. He knows that it's not leaving his head anytime soon, though.