There is something wrong, even worse than usual, but he doesn't know what it is or how to put it right.
They told him to stay where he was and not do anything other than what they'd said, and for some reason, he knows they mean business. So he tries to sit still and he tries to act normal, but it's draining him. There is a beast within him, waking from slumber, and it wants to sharpen its claws and senses. He doesn't know how it got there. He just knows that it makes him want to pounce and kill. But they've shackled him and he fears them, so he stays put and tries to think of other things.
The whole setting is disorienting. There are too many people, too much noise and above all, too much color. He vaguely remembers enjoying color at one point in time, but this color…it looks too bright. After the pure white of his cell, the reds and greens and blues and yellows confuse him. He wants to destroy it, but you can't destroy color.
Can you?
He's remembering more now, a sudden splintering noise and colors shattering before his eyes. Is it real? Is anything real? He's given up on that question.
Thinking of colors is too painful, so he turns his attention to the man before him instead. He feels like he should recognize him. He feels that he's important, somehow. The name is on the tip of his tongue, but it stays there. It can't reach him through his bemused state of resentment and restlessness. He's getting agitated now. He needs to know that name. If he knows that name, everything will be all right. He can feel it. He focuses harder, even though it kills him, and studies the man. He's white, like the cell, like the pain, and he smells metallic and potent. It makes him want to sneeze, but he's afraid they might not consider that normal behavior, so he doesn't.
The blur of monotonous voice and stark color is suddenly interrupted by pandemonium. He can't figure out why, until he realizes he's speaking. He must have rehearsed his words well, because they come out in a disjointed flood without his permission. He can't even understand what they mean. He lets himself push forward though, because he has a feeling that it's important. Through the bemusement and the rage, a single image rises into his mind. A female, his age, with dark hair and dark eyes and fire in her gaze. A part of him wails for her love. A part of him bays for her blood. He can't talk anymore and is almost glad when the blow on the back of his head brings out a single, acute feeling: pain. He sees a rush of fluent color – red, like flames – and then it's black.