Whitewashed

A scary story, I got this idea when I was bored, and couldn't stop writing

 

I hate the color white. I hate the sight, the sound, the nature, of the color white.

 

White is the color of perfection. It is the color of these white walls, which will not stain. It’s the color of the coats of the chemists and psychologists with all the answers. It is the color of the pills stuffed down my throat. It is the color of this damnable device which restrains me. It is the color of the papers signed to put me here, the van that came to take me away, and the color of the building in which I am trapped. I hate the color white.

 

I can hear the ghosts moaning again. They won’t leave me alone. They always come at night. They rarely come during the day, but if they start doing it regularly, God help us all.

 

Every time they touch me, it leaves a welt. It’s so cold, but it looks like a burn. I would make the sign of the cross as a defense, but they won’t let me out of the straight jacket that has now become a regular part of my wardrobe. 

 

I’ve pleaded with Mr. Wells many times about letting me out, but he only humors me, and puts me off. I know what he’s doing. He’s treating me like I’m a nut! But I’m not a nut. I promise. An insane man could never have thoughts such as these.

 

The light keeps flickering. It only used to flicker on and off for a split second, but now it stays off for about a minute. I think that it’s a sign that the room, like myself, is in it's death throes.

 

Even the ticking of the clock on the wall has become slower. I keep looking up at the wall to discern the time, and then realize the hands have been ripped off by the ghosts.

 

As I said before, I’m not insane, but if I have to keep listening to that thing, I will be. Tick, tick, tick, tick. I can’t decide what’s worse, the ghosts, or the clock.  Is there no rest for the weary?

 

The ghosts won’t come near me when the light is on. Only stand at the far corner of the room. They don’t like the light.

 

I sigh in discontent. For all the safety my room provides, I hate it. My cell. It is a cell without bars or windows, but a cell nonetheless, with ghosts for cellmates.

 

Mr. Bell walks through the door, making me jump. He grins at me in a sick way in his white jumpsuit, holding a pill in one hand, and a glass of clear water in the other.

 

“Close the door, you’re letting the ghosts in.” I whisper softly, staring at the unholy figures floating over the doorjamb.

 

“You say that every time I walk in here and…” He looks around with exaggerated motions. “I don’t see any ghosts.” “Also, it’s time for your medication. Oh!  I see you already know what day it is.” He laughs.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well it’s Halloween, and you already have your mask on!” he cackles, holding out the small half circle of pill on his palm.

 

I bend over and pick it up with my teeth like a dog, unable to reach for it.

 

When he sees I have it firmly in my mouth, Mr. Wells holds the glass up to my lips.

 

I drink from the glass with half of a heart, only swallowing enough to make the medicine go down.

 

“Happy Halloween, nut.” Mr. Wells says, walking off.

 

 

“What, no treat?” I shout before the door closes shut behind him, staring at the ghosts standing on the far side of the room.

 

I fight the drowsing effects of the pill as best as I can. My heartbeat and breathing begin to slow. 

 

The light flickers, humming. It makes the shadows flicker and bend across the soft white walls with un-natural light.

 

The ghosts across the room smile at me. I grin back, recognizing each face as a former friend. Their skin looks taut.

 

“Why me?” I ask. “Why do you haunt me? Why not your family, or your other friends, why me?”

 

They stand side by side in silence.

 

“I never did anything to you!” I shout at them. “It’s I who should be haunting you! All of you took advantage of me, all of you used me, it’s not my fault your dead!”

 

They only grin as the light overhead flickers a final time and dies as the clock stops.

 

                                 

  *           *              *

 

Mr. Wells flung the door open, making it slam against the wall. “How’d you like our little power outage last night?” He faltered off as he was thrown into pitch black. “What the Hell?”   Mr. Wells pulled a flashlight out of a pocket of the jumpsuit and shined it around the room.

 

The light is shattered; the clock hanging onto the wall by one wire. The patient sits in one corner of the room, calm, silent, and dead. The patient’s body was stiff from rigor mortis. He shined the flashlight into the man’s glassy, misty eyes. “Definitely dead,” he mutters.

 

Shivers ran down his spine, a soft whisper echoing through the small room.

 

“Close the door, you’re letting the ghosts in.”

Author's Note

This one was semi written in haste because of eagerness to type it.

Reviews

[Emily Elizabeth]

Best ending I've ever read!

An entertaining, interesting and engaging read, I adored this! This is really professionally done, and it didn't seem rushed at all! You made the main character really different and interesting, and I could hear his/her voice in my head completely! You really did make them sound like they were loosing it.

Brilliant story! Definitely one of my favorites on here!

[Danielle]

Oh god, by the first word I was hooked. You haev an extreme amount of talent I loved it. :D

[Reuel]

in answer to Rubber...can was supposed to be van...stupid typo *blushses* >.>

[rubberduckyheart]

Ooh! I loved it. Kinda reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe's Tell-Tale Heart.
Really good!

"It is the color of this damnable device which restrains me. It is the color of the papers signed to put me here, the can that came to take me away, and the color of the building in which I am trapped"
I don't understand "the can that came to take me away"
But it's still amazing.