• I felt my heart rate pick up speed as my eyes slowly opened to realize the wall that I was facing, wasn’t my wall. It was far from my wall in fact. My wall was green and had a picture of a fairy in a frame, not to far above my old stereo system that I must have had since I was nine. My wall had huge double windows, usually covered by my light blocking shades that were hell to move up and down. This was not my wall. This wall was white, and bare except for the unwelcoming single window placed right in the center of it. But then I remembered what had happened.
    I could already feel tears begin to sting the sides of my eyes, and my stomach lurch in recollection of the night before. I shut my eyes immediately in response, hoping they could take away the horror of that single white wall before me. As my eyes were shut I also came to realize that the bed I was on was not my own. There was no comforter, just a blanket that seemed to stick to me like a cocoon. The pillow didn’t seem thick enough, and the actual bed itself was made of plastic. I curled myself into a tighter ball…but nothing changed.
    Nothing will ever change.
    I was doomed to this fate. I was doomed to this…this place that before seemed to impossible and far off, but now I was strangling in my hand. It was there. Physically there, and it wasn’t home. No, far from home. It was my own living personal hell.
    I had pictured hell more than a hundred times I estimated, figuring I would end up there at some point. I had been hoping sooner than later. I guess my assumption was that hell was something my RE teachers had talked about. A fiery pit in which all the damned souls would be sent when they didn’t get passed the gates. A place where the serial killers, terrorists, and all the ‘bad people’ were sent to be ruled by the devil. I was too inept to realize that hell was right around the corner, and possibly everywhere I looked. Especially now, in a single white wall.
    That stupid white wall. White. I remembered a story I read by Stephen King. Duma Key I believe the name was in which Edgar Freemantle had described white as the absence of memory. Maybe I hated this white for that reason. It was the absence of memory, and I wished for that. Instead, I was cursed with the haunting of the night before, and every day before that one. White is what I envied and wanted for my own, but white was nearly impossible to get to, but that was my plan anyway.