Four walls

She was inside the cliched symbolism. Sitting down in the center of the room, she felt the four white walls close around her. Four white walls, set off by the clinical white flourescent lights, that emitted a dull whir, setting the background noise for the room. That and the occasional clunking sounds from the ancient air-conditioning system. It was a symphony, a cacophony of mechanical sounds.

Whirrrrrr, went the lights.

Clunk, went the air-conditioner.

Plop, went the droplets that seeped off the air-conditioner.

Squeak, went the plastic chairs as she shifted unconfortably.


At first it was quiet, and she was alone. The sounds of the room were magnified in the silence, as were her annoying squeaks whenever she moved ever so slightly in the chair. She wasn't comfortable here. It was so dead. Everything was white, the walls, the light, it was glaring and it meant to trap her. It meant to keep her there and siphon her soul away little by little, so that she wouldn't realize it until she was gone.


The voice started to drone on. It melded in with the rest of the noise effortlessly. She easily tuned out but then, forced herself to concentrate. It was almost impossible. She hated this. It was torture. The room was designed to torture her. She almost wished she were a corpse, since this room, cold and clinical as it was, would have been more suited for a mortuary anyways. And if she were a corpse, she wouldn't have to listen to the noise. She hates it. She doesn't want to be here. But she will. Every day, she will walk into the room with the four white walls that close in on her, listen to the drip and groaning of the air-conditioner, the incessant squeaking of the plastic chairs and the voice that blends in so well, she has to force herself to concentrate on catching what exactly is being said.