White

A gentle hand settles on my shoulder but, I don't bother to turn around. I already know what I will find. Nothing but more white. Another white wall under these harsh white lights that hum softly sounding like a piercing yellow. The kind of yellow that you'd see when staring directly at the sun on a summer day. The florescent lights reflect on the papery white clothes I'm forced to wear, and it fades into the papery, pale, white skin the voices say is mine. The hand's grip on my shoulder tightens; this should startle me, ruse some sort of reaction but, I find myself emotionless once more. I've grown used to being numb to the world. I stopped noticing things. Things like echoing voices tell me that I'm nothing and I'll never be real. Or, perhaps, the feeling of fingernails colliding with my skin, pressing deep like small, thin, razors, piercing through and separating the skin so a crimson red can spill through and escape their prison only to be trapped again as it dyes the papery material.

Though, the hand on my shoulder has his own voice, colorless. The hand is worried about the dark pink marks that it's left on my shoulder and one of the echoing voices I hear coaxing the hand, telling it that it's okay to draw blood and there is no need to worry. The voice is right, there's no need to worry. I'm not worried, I know I won't feel it, not right away. There's only a vague awareness of the deep crimson red. The red reminds me of my mother's favorite wine as it rolls down my shoulder and spills out of my sickly white, papery, porcelain skin that's always cold, a complete contrast to the warm blood that doesn't seem like it could be mine.

I can feel the pain get sharper as the mesmerizing, crimson red runs down my shoulder. The nails on the hand dig, burrowing into my skin like a rabbit trying to make its home or a wolf burying what's left of the animal it killed. The red that paints the uncomfortable paper clothes. I move to lay on the floor so the blood pools around me. I lay there as my vison floods with white. Stupid, ugly white. I get up, looking at the flood on the floor. I can see it covering the walls, covering the white and shielding me, like a blanket.

I am almost aware of the lingering pain in my fingertips, nails being ripped from the bed from pressure. I look at them, curious as to why my nails would have been applying pressure to anything. I find myself only more confused, seeing that they're red like everything else that's been decorated with my blood, but I haven't touched it with my hands. I didn't touch the wound, I didn't touch the pool of blood that's already ruining the grout of the tile and I didn't touch the walls. I don't think I have, I don't remember doing it. Why would I want to?

A soft yet disgusting voice drenches my senses. Stupid, ugly, neon-pink frilliness. I shouldn't hate things still, I hate this doctor. The pinkness of it is like the cloth that my mother once tried to dye a bright red but only had florescent pink on hand so she over-saturated it in attempt, but it was such a bright pink, I bet her it would glow in the dark.

I like the doctor with the pastel blue voice. It's soothing and deep like the sky on a clear, cloudless day as the sun relentless beats down on your skin and fills you with a feeling of comfort and warmth. He's kind to me and reminds me of the days I spent in the spring when the flowers were as colorful as the sounds. The pink is like the dark days I spent locked in my room for talking to voices or about the colors I hear. It's always scared my parents and why they never visit. I scare them just like I scare the doctors. They're scared of the voices and call me schizophrenic. A schizophrenic, synesthetic mess.