Sunlight floods my room as I rub the sleep out of my eyes. Sometimes the Sun annoys me, but perhaps I should count myself fortunate for having a room with a view. I had seen some of the other rooms before, and the overwhelming confinement of being enclosed in a coffin of bleak grey walls would have been too much for my psyche. I could not imagine how anyone could stand the mental agony of being trapped in a box like that. At least my walls had a glass window scoured into it, although I constantly worry if such a benefit would be taken away from me.
I washed my face from the dingy sink in my confined room. The water was hard, cold and metallic. I did not know what time it was, but sometimes I was glad that I did not have to. Time can be a dreadful thing. I only knew that breakfast would be served soon, but before that I generally like to look out of the window and take a glimpse of the relatively boring film being replayed over and over in a never ending loop. Is it sane for me to wonder if the reality beyond the window was just something they want me to believe in?
I would rather take solace in assuming what happened beyond the window was real, although being trapped in a dream-like state would have been my next best alternative. Below me, on the bustling street, I normally see cars drive by. Today in particular, a crisp red vehicle darted from the left edge of the window to the right, streaking across my sight in a blur of motion. I wonder what it was like to be able to sit in one of those vehicles. Must be a terrifying experience, I guessed. Today in particular, I could make out people walking along the street. One wore a hazel garment, the fluttering trails of thread bleeding into the bleak grey pavement as she strutted into a shop adorned with festive greetings and fancy, shiny banners. They always reminded me of something, but I had somehow forgotten. Maybe forgetting was a good thing. Why do people want to memorise everything they see just to prove to some other person that they could be capable of something? Anyone could be capable of anything, or so I was told. Deep down, I actually disagreed, but disagreeing with them normally left people like me enclosed in rooms as bland as a coffin. Maybe a coffin would be more comfortable, or perhaps more interesting. I heard they had television and music players in coffins nowadays. Verifying that personally would be interesting, but largely redundant.
I jolted a little bit when I heard the jarring ringing of the bell outside the door of my room. I always hated the bell, with the loud overtones and conflicting squeals and discordant ringing that irritated the very hairs on my body. Have anyone ever wondered why we even need to have body hair? Such a superfluous thing for creatures that generally wear coverings over our body.
Someone opened the door, flooding the room with the harsh white florescent lighting that I had not grown accustomed to. It blinded me and made me annoyed. It was light, definitely, but cold and unyielding. It was always there, ready to flood my eyes and thoughts with frigid despair. They will not get to me, I swore under my breath, as I was dragged along by the rough handler in his deep navy blue uniform. I kind of feel sorry for these people for being forced to wear something with such limited creativity. Of all the blue in the world, they had to settle with just one boring hue. Then again, I was the one being dragged along with painful loops attached to my wrists.
I was led into another room. This one was roomier, with a metallic rectangle table and two wooden chairs. I was told to sit, which I promptly did. I missed my own room now, but there was nothing I could really do about it. While I had limited but favourably pleasant movement, I did not have the full flexibility that a normal person would have. I heard some shouting outside the room, but I could not really recognise the voices. Although it was a glass door, the glass was fogged, unlike the glass found in my own room. The uniformed man entered the room again to remove the chafing things from my wrists. As he left, someone dressed in a long white jacket entered. Perhaps I am looking at a ghost?
The man spoke to me, introducing himself as Doctor Hendale. I did not really care, until he asked me how I was feeling, so I told him. The question was silly though, as he took out a paper folder with hand-written notes. The scrawling hand-writing irked me sometimes, and other times the very flurry of activity as he wrote frantically onto sheets of pristine lined paper irritated me more. The scratching of the ball-point pen on the paper as he wrote made me want to lash at him. Sometimes I almost did, but it was difficult to do that when your legs were restricted in movement. I never really understood the point of these conversations. I was perfectly fine and perfectly capable of conversing with myself under my breath. Why would anyone want to partake in a personal conversation of me with myself is anyone's guess. Sometimes, they can be awfully intrusive.
He repeated his question, to which I answered to the best of my ability. He scribbled a bit more, then showed me some pictures, as if trying to teach me what they were. I already knew what a television was, what a phone was and what a computer was. This was pointless. I am not mentally ill or mentally inhibited, just mentally different. Or, rather, I always thought I was mentally different. Maybe I am mentally normal, and he is mentally different. I smiled a little at the horrible irony that someone who is mentally different is trying to teach me to be mentally normal.
Hendale asked me yet another question, to which I responded a little more angrily. People come and go, and yet these people refuse to leave me alone in my own little room to my own little life. What was I to them but a mere creature enclosed in a box and studied like a rat in a laboratory somewhere else in the world? I am just human, like Hendale, but yet I am lesser. Or, perhaps I am greater, and it is a lesser being trying to study me.
The interview was finally finished, although it was like every other interview I have had. They always try to change me, and they can try, but in the end it is I who change them. Sometimes, the person does not visit me anymore. Other times, they simply come back once or twice, then leave. Hendale had been here for almost half a year or more now. Maybe it was half a year. I contemplated over the length of time I had been seeing him as the blue uniformed man brought me back to my room.
I quite like my room, actually. The bleak walls and grey confinement. There was also that window that let the warm glow of sunlight into my room, bathing it in a comforting orange glow that made me feel more at ease. Time passes, I suppose, with no one but my thoughts to entertain me and be my company. At least I have me and the window above me.
