Denial's Not Just a Feeling

Judgmental White Walls

“Why can’t I breathe?” She screamed to the white walls, hands clasped around her throat putting aimless pressure on it. “What have you done to me?”

                The walls just stood staring back at her, in almost a laughing, but tolerant tone. They were soft, yet deadly looking.

                She looked around the room as if she were spun around a revolving door too many times to be able to see anything straight. Hands pressed tighter to her throat, mouth slightly ajar taking in quick breaths of air. She started heaving and fell on her back to the white, foamed padded floor. She bent her knees up, sticking her heels right in front of her butt.

                “Why?” She asked desperately, swallowing dry saliva and staring at the soft, white ceiling. “Why must you laugh so silently at my delusions?” The ceiling lay still above her. She blinked quickly, feeling the rush of tears come to her eyes. “Am I really that crazy that you have to mock me for it?” She swallowed again and took in a deep, shaky breath. “I know I must have some sense of insanity, but I don’t think I’m that bad.” The ceiling stared back at her in a reluctant way. “Yeah. Thanks.”

                She narrowed her eyes to the white wall in front of her with a window in a white door. It was always locked so she couldn’t attempt to get out, but she was one of the only ones that never attempted. What was the use? She was crazy anyways, but that didn’t mean she had to be treated like a rabid animal under constant watch at their disease.

                She released her hands from her neck to turn over on her stomach in a more comfortable position. She sprawled her arms out to her sides, palms faced up, knees unbent and laying towards the floor with her chin propped up to stare at the wall that was previously behind her.

                “What do you think?”

                The wall rolled around annoyed, disgusted at the sight of her, now pleased there was no more need to look at her.

                She sighed. “How great? Even you can’t stand me. And here I thought you were the one that could tolerate me the most. How wrong I was.” She shook her head still looking at the back of the wall. “I love you too,” she added sarcastically with an eye roll and pushing herself up to a sitting position, eyeing the wall’s back angrily. “Ya know?” Arms crossed defensively. “I’m trying to be nice here since we have spent a good amount of time together, but you don’t seem to be as nice as I thought, so I’m just gonna—“

                The door started to open, making her stop mid-sentence and look over her shoulder at the person that had stopped her speech.

                A petite, blonde, brown eyed woman came in wearing the usual white lab coat, gloves and tennis shoes. “Is everything okay, Meranda?”

                Meranda turned her siting body around to look at the woman with her arms still crossed. “No. That . . . that wall,” she uncrossed one arm to poke her thumb in the direction of the wall behind her, “turned its back on me when I was just taking in its appearance.”

                “Well, Meranda,” the woman settled more into the room, holding onto the opened door. “You know it’s not right to stare at someone, right?”

                Meranda blew out a breath and pushed her curly, brown mane behind her ears with her uncrossed hands. “Yeah . . . but—“

                “There is no but about it, Meranda, it’s rude.”

                “Then why does Chrissy always stare at me and you don’t yell at him?” Meranda whined impatiently.