A World Of White

by Paul Varga

      My cell is white. Many colors of white. I've been here so long, I have almost forgotten other colors. I have memories of them, but they are no longer in my rainbow. On one end of the spectrum, I see the bright suits of the men who come in to feed me and take me to wash. A little farther down is the smooth, creamy white around the creases in the padding of the walls. Even farther is the floor, the center of which is darkened with a grimy gray they can never seem to mop clean. Farthest from white are the corners of my room at night. I sleep in the darkest corner, the one most distant from the striped rectangle of light that pours in through the barred window.
      There are other colors, but I have nothing more than memories of them. I remember something red can be found inside the attendants, doctors and guards. Sometimes I try to see it by looking through their eyes, but most of my visitors avoid eye contact with me anymore.
      I also know of green. But it, too, is a fading memory. If I were tall enough to see out the window, I would probably see green. Just on the other side of this wall at my back. But that I'm not even sure of anymore.
      Their plans are beginning to work, I fear. By taking away colors, they have further trapped me in this sterile, maddening world of theirs. Their bars, their locks, their straightjackets have prevented me from escaping, but that's not enough for them. By denying me a world of color, they have taken away my mind's ability to wander. Dooming me to go insane.
      I sit with my eyes closed, mentally trying to escape as I used to do so easily. But I cannot seem to get any farther than the white hallways. I try to imagine sitting in the grass under a tree, but I can remember nothing about the outside world. No smells. No sounds. No colors. If I could have green, I would have part of my world back.
      Lately, I have been dreaming of the outside. Running through fields of deep grass, trees waiting in the distance. But it doesn't seem real, because I see no color. Just a time and place that feels so distant, I'm not sure it ever existed.
      If it is much longer before I see the outside, I'm convinced I will go insane. But I cannot mention this to anyone, or they will make sure I stay here forever.
      There is a jingle of keys outside my door. I close my eyes, and I feel the air pressure shift, toward me then away again, as the door is pushed open. Still with eyes shut, I smell the cologne Dr. Slater wears. I will smell it for hours after he has left.
      "Good morning, Mr. Keane," says Dr. Slater.
      I don't say anything. I wait to see what kind of mood he is in. Sometimes he seems relatively cooperative; sometimes he snaps at me before I say anything. He is too unpredictable to be trusted.
      I open my eyes to see him motioning two large attendants to wait outside my door. He turns toward me again.
      "Mr. Keane," he says again. "I have some good news for you."
      I say nothing. His good news isn't always good news.
      "You do like good news, don't you?"
      Keeping in mind the fact that anything I ever said in this place has been used against me, I remain silent.
      "It has come to my attention that you've been on relatively good behavior. It's been a long time since you've tried anything foolish. Of course, that may be due to the fact that you've been in confinement. But I think it's time to see if you're ready for lower security once again.
      "Mr. Keane? How would you like to get out of here? Into another cell, of course. But a larger one, with some furniture. And a window you can see out of."
      I know they have rooms like that; I used to stay in one. One time, I even had a roommate. It seemed to me Ben would never sleep. Which made me nervous, so I stayed awake, too. I lost a lot of sleep before I finally scratched his eyes out.
      "Mr. Keane? I bet you'd like to get out of that straightjacket—wouldn't you?"
      When I was younger, I might have jumped at the offer. But time has made me wise to their ways. I stare at the floor.
      I know it is some kind of ploy—a way to lure me into another one of their experiments. I almost fell into one years ago, when I was not so wise. Dr. Jackson had me believing I would be released if I only let him conduct a few examinations and questionnaires "to see if I'm ready." But after hours of questions, I decided not to let myself be fooled anymore, and I managed to stick Dr. Jackson in the leg with my pencil before making a complete fool of myself. After he finished howling, it became clear that he had never meant to release me. That's when Dr. Slater started showing up.
      Dr. Slater is a much smaller man, with thick, white hair. He appeared nervous at first, but that was long ago. Now, he tells his attendants to wait for him outside in the hall and looks me straight into the eyes when he talks to me. I see no red behind his eyes, so I don't look anymore. And I am always careful of what I say.

      "I can come back another time," he says.
      I finally look at him. I want to hear more about his offer. Try to find the strings attached.
      "Mr. Keane? Would you like to get out of here?"
      I nod. Let's see where this goes.
      The attendants step inside the room, lift me by my elbows, and lead me out the door. The tile in the hall is cold under my feet, and my right leg has begun to fall asleep. I walk slowly, as I try to shake the sleep out of my leg with each step.
      "Once you get back into the main wing, you'll feel a lot better," Dr. Slater says, walking beside me. "You'll loosen up a bit. And if things work out, you might even get a roommate."
      He looks at me like he thought I was about to say something.
      "Call me crazy, but you might even start talking again." He smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. It surprises me, and I recoil at the touch. He pulls it away.
      "Sorry," he says. "I could be mistaken."
      He starts to tell me more about his offer, perhaps giving me a clue as to what he really wants from me, but I am distracted with something I see far away at the end of the hall.
      The door is open—jammed wide open—as two guys in white caps and overalls carry a ladder outside. I cannot hear Dr. Slater as I stare ahead at the opening. Immediately outside the door sits a white van, blocking the entire view. But the outdoors awaits on the other side of it, I am sure.
      After a few more steps, I start to sweat. Dr. Slater had promised me a window, but for all I knew, that would never come true. And here is the outside, a mere hundred yards away.
      I can feel myself shiver as I breathe in deeply. I cannot hide my excitement. Before they can read my thoughts, I break into a run.
      My arms bound, I feel awkward and unbalanced. It is like a dream, where running takes complete concentration. I curse my leg for being asleep. Not halfway there, it wants to give up.
      I hear footsteps getting closer, but I cannot look back to see how far away they are. I stare at the doorway and clench my teeth. All I need is to lay my eyes upon the outside, to let the green soak into my sight, to add that splendid detail to my dreams. One look is all I need to remember the color, and I will be saved from madness.
      I hear their pant legs whisking against each other, and their quick, steady breathing. I try to ignore the tingling in my leg as the feeling comes back in an overwhelming rush.
      The door is a mere thirty yards away. I can see more of the van. The grass and trees must be just out of sight.
      They are upon me. They can't get much closer before they grab me. The newfound sensitivity in my leg is too much. The last ten or twelve steps have been sheer agony. The leg crumples under my weight, and I fall to the floor and slide another ten feet on my chest.
      I smell a thick, gassy smell—wet paint?—accompanied by a sweet, earthy smell—dandelions? But I cannot stretch my neck far enough to see any green.
      My head drops to the floor. I have failed, and it will be a long time before I ever get such a chance again.
      But as I am yanked to my feet, I see something on the white floor that stands out in sharp contrast. I have broken my lip, and a small puddle of blood sits there, wakening me to the color red. A true, undeniable red.
      I am dragged on my heels away from the spot, but I see a similar one forming on the front of my white jacket. I laugh in their faces all the way back to my cell. This red I will remember for a long time.
      I have saved myself from insanity.
A World Of White © 1999, Paul Varga. All rights reserved.

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© 1999, Publishing Co. All rights reserved.

A World Of White

by Paul Varga

      My cell is white. Many colors of white. I've been here so long, I have almost forgotten other colors. I have memories of them, but they are no longer in my rainbow. On one end of the spectrum, I see the bright suits of the men who come in to feed me and take me to wash. A little farther down is the smooth, creamy white around the creases in the padding of the walls. Even farther is the floor, the center of which is darkened with a grimy gray they can never seem to mop clean. Farthest from white are the corners of my room at night. I sleep in the darkest corner, the one most distant from the striped rectangle of light that pours in through the barred window.
      There are other colors, but I have nothing more than memories of them. I remember something red can be found inside the attendants, doctors and guards. Sometimes I try to see it by looking through their eyes, but most of my visitors avoid eye contact with me anymore.
      I also know of green. But it, too, is a fading memory. If I were tall enough to see out the window, I would probably see green. Just on the other side of this wall at my back. But that I'm not even sure of anymore.
      Their plans are beginning to work, I fear. By taking away colors, they have further trapped me in this sterile, maddening world of theirs. Their bars, their locks, their straightjackets have prevented me from escaping, but that's not enough for them. By denying me a world of color, they have taken away my mind's ability to wander. Dooming me to go insane.
      I sit with my eyes closed, mentally trying to escape as I used to do so easily. But I cannot seem to get any farther than the white hallways. I try to imagine sitting in the grass under a tree, but I can remember nothing about the outside world. No smells. No sounds. No colors. If I could have green, I would have part of my world back.
      Lately, I have been dreaming of the outside. Running through fields of deep grass, trees waiting in the distance. But it doesn't seem real, because I see no color. Just a time and place that feels so distant, I'm not sure it ever existed.
      If it is much longer before I see the outside, I'm convinced I will go insane. But I cannot mention this to anyone, or they will make sure I stay here forever.
      There is a jingle of keys outside my door. I close my eyes, and I feel the air pressure shift, toward me then away again, as the door is pushed open. Still with eyes shut, I smell the cologne Dr. Slater wears. I will smell it for hours after he has left.
      "Good morning, Mr. Keane," says Dr. Slater.
      I don't say anything. I wait to see what kind of mood he is in. Sometimes he seems relatively cooperative; sometimes he snaps at me before I say anything. He is too unpredictable to be trusted.
      I open my eyes to see him motioning two large attendants to wait outside my door. He turns toward me again.
      "Mr. Keane," he says again. "I have some good news for you."
      I say nothing. His good news isn't always good news.
      "You do like good news, don't you?"
      Keeping in mind the fact that anything I ever said in this place has been used against me, I remain silent.
      "It has come to my attention that you've been on relatively good behavior. It's been a long time since you've tried anything foolish. Of course, that may be due to the fact that you've been in confinement. But I think it's time to see if you're ready for lower security once again.
      "Mr. Keane? How would you like to get out of here? Into another cell, of course. But a larger one, with some furniture. And a window you can see out of."
      I know they have rooms like that; I used to stay in one. One time, I even had a roommate. It seemed to me Ben would never sleep. Which made me nervous, so I stayed awake, too. I lost a lot of sleep before I finally scratched his eyes out.
      "Mr. Keane? I bet you'd like to get out of that straightjacket—wouldn't you?"
      When I was younger, I might have jumped at the offer. But time has made me wise to their ways. I stare at the floor.
      I know it is some kind of ploy—a way to lure me into another one of their experiments. I almost fell into one years ago, when I was not so wise. Dr. Jackson had me believing I would be released if I only let him conduct a few examinations and questionnaires "to see if I'm ready." But after hours of questions, I decided not to let myself be fooled anymore, and I managed to stick Dr. Jackson in the leg with my pencil before making a complete fool of myself. After he finished howling, it became clear that he had never meant to release me. That's when Dr. Slater started showing up.
      Dr. Slater is a much smaller man, with thick, white hair. He appeared nervous at first, but that was long ago. Now, he tells his attendants to wait for him outside in the hall and looks me straight into the eyes when he talks to me. I see no red behind his eyes, so I don't look anymore. And I am always careful of what I say.
      "I can come back another time," he says.
      I finally look at him. I want to hear more about his offer. Try to find the strings attached.
      "Mr. Keane? Would you like to get out of here?"
      I nod. Let's see where this goes.
      The attendants step inside the room, lift me by my elbows, and lead me out the door. The tile in the hall is cold under my feet, and my right leg has begun to fall asleep. I walk slowly, as I try to shake the sleep out of my leg with each step.
      "Once you get back into the main wing, you'll feel a lot better," Dr. Slater says, walking beside me. "You'll loosen up a bit. And if things work out, you might even get a roommate."
      He looks at me like he thought I was about to say something.
      "Call me crazy, but you might even start talking again." He smiles and puts his hand on my shoulder. It surprises me, and I recoil at the touch. He pulls it away.
      "Sorry," he says. "I could be mistaken."
      He starts to tell me more about his offer, perhaps giving me a clue as to what he really wants from me, but I am distracted with something I see far away at the end of the hall.
      The door is open—jammed wide open—as two guys in white caps and overalls carry a ladder outside. I cannot hear Dr. Slater as I stare ahead at the opening. Immediately outside the door sits a white van, blocking the entire view. But the outdoors awaits on the other side of it, I am sure.
      After a few more steps, I start to sweat. Dr. Slater had promised me a window, but for all I knew, that would never come true. And here is the outside, a mere hundred yards away.
      I can feel myself shiver as I breathe in deeply. I cannot hide my excitement. Before they can read my thoughts, I break into a run.
      My arms bound, I feel awkward and unbalanced. It is like a dream, where running takes complete concentration. I curse my leg for being asleep. Not halfway there, it wants to give up.
      I hear footsteps getting closer, but I cannot look back to see how far away they are. I stare at the doorway and clench my teeth. All I need is to lay my eyes upon the outside, to let the green soak into my sight, to add that splendid detail to my dreams. One look is all I need to remember the color, and I will be saved from madness.
      I hear their pant legs whisking against each other, and their quick, steady breathing. I try to ignore the tingling in my leg as the feeling comes back in an overwhelming rush.
      The door is a mere thirty yards away. I can see more of the van. The grass and trees must be just out of sight.
      They are upon me. They can't get much closer before they grab me. The newfound sensitivity in my leg is too much. The last ten or twelve steps have been sheer agony. The leg crumples under my weight, and I fall to the floor and slide another ten feet on my chest.
      I smell a thick, gassy smell—wet paint?—accompanied by a sweet, earthy smell—dandelions? But I cannot stretch my neck far enough to see any green.
      My head drops to the floor. I have failed, and it will be a long time before I ever get such a chance again.
      But as I am yanked to my feet, I see something on the white floor that stands out in sharp contrast. I have broken my lip, and a small puddle of blood sits there, wakening me to the color red. A true, undeniable red.
      I am dragged on my heels away from the spot, but I see a similar one forming on the front of my white jacket. I laugh in their faces all the way back to my cell. This red I will remember for a long time.
      I have saved myself from insanity.
A World Of White © 1999, Paul Varga. All rights reserved.

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© 1999, Publishing Co. All rights reserved.