The White Room's Secret

The hum. It was the first thing I noticed, always. A low, persistent thrum that vibrated through the thin mattress, through the bones of my spine, into the very marrow of my being. It was the sound of this place, the white room, a constant lullaby sung by unseen machines. I’d tried to ignore it, to push it to the periphery of my awareness, but it was like trying to ignore the beating of my own heart. It was there, in the quiet, in the moments I tried to grasp at the edges of myself.

My eyes fluttered open, as they always did, to the relentless, blinding white. White ceiling, white walls, white sheets. Even the air felt bleached, devoid of any colour, any scent that might anchor me. I blinked, the fluorescent light overhead stinging my retinas, and for a moment, just a sliver of a second, I saw it. A flash of vibrant, impossible green. It was so vivid, so alive, it made my chest ache with a forgotten longing. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, swallowed by the pervasive, sterile white.

“Good morning, Anya.”