Not finnished......

based off a true event....

It was a Saturday, a typical day that most teenagers my age would spend shopping or just waking up after a long night of a sleepover with a hangover. The walls that surround me are a shade of white in which reminds me of broken eggshells, cracks filling all the chipped paint that falls just so. I was sitting in a waiting room that laid just outside the local retirement home made specifically for a certain kind of old people. The room was fairly small, filled with people all of similar problems. The only real thing that stood out to me in the room was a clear vase that sat in the far right corner, the petals of the sickly yellow tulips slowly filling themselves with death and decay, and then a stack of brochures that sat right along next to it, bright colors that didn’t relate with the theme of the room in any way. A person sat in each chair, not one was empty, and each of different faces. These were the relatives of the mental patients that presided in the special retirement home.

I caught a quick glance of one patient coming out of his cell. I couldn’t really see much, him being so far in distance and all. I did notice, however, that his skin was a darker shade than most I have seen, as if he has spent a good amount of his spare time under the sun. His head was shaven down to the skin and his eyes were red, the way eyes get after many nights of crying with little to no sleep each night. The off-white shade of the fabric that covered his body made him look as if he were already dead, and by the way he glanced over at me, his eyes filled to the brim with nothingness, I thought he really was for a second. His wrists were bound as if he was of the dangerous kind, but nothing about him seemed to be dangerous at all, showing no sign of resistance whatsoever. It was as if the bounding of his arms did nothing to resist him, as if he were clueless to his surroundings and clueless to the fact that he was standing beyond the bars of this local mental institution.

“Mr. Shifflett?”

The sound of a bell ringing alarmed my attention, and I looked up to see a woman calling my name as she tapped the small, golden bell with the tips of her red, manicured fingers. She looked to be in her late twenties, but the darkness of this building has aged her eyes in a way that can only be described by see it for oneself. It was like staring into the eyes of a coffin, small and dark. It almost prevented me from standing from my seat, but I then proceeded to gather up the books I had laying in my lap, sticking them into my worn shoulder bag, and then I walked over the desk. I could tell she was a bit impatient with me by the way she leaned over the desk and tapped her nails along the wood, staring directly at me as if to pull me to her.

“Mr. Shifflett. We are ready for you now.” She handed me a visitors pass that I then clipped to my shirt as I followed her to the doors along my right. As we walked through the doors, a burst of white light hit my face, almost blinding me, and it takes me a second to regain my sight before I continue.