Darkness. All around me is darkness. It presses in from every side, consuming everything around me like a ravenous Jabberwocky; leaving me in nothingness. Me. Who am I? I'm not sure…wait! I am Aloria. The whispers in my head tell me that, but nothing else. I ask for more but they only snicker and fade away. They like to tease me, taunt me. They know everything, I know nothing but what they tell me.
The whispers. They are the reason I sit here in darkness. They tell me the darkness is only temporary. Promise the light is going to come back. I hear others moving around me. I am not alone. I hear their voices, droning like so many thousands of insects. Their feelers touch my arm. The whispers are angry, demanding retribution. I pull against my invisible restraints. The droning grows louder. They know I am aware. Feelers touch my face and I am bathed in light. The brightness stings after so much time in the dark. The whispers hiss angrily. I blink, once, twice, and again. I see them now, the ones who drone; the ones who touch. I don't like them, the whispers agree. I look down and see that I am in a chair. Thick leather straps across my wrists, ankles, chest and stomach keep me in place. The room around me is white. I immediately want to paint it red. My paint always comes from within the ones who drone. The whispers cheer the idea. I understand the reason for the restraints.
Fear. The scent of it is thick in the white room. I shift, uncomfortable in my chair and the scent grows stronger. The whispers laugh. I watch the ones who drone communicate with each other. There are two of them, one male, and one female. They face me and I can now see their fear, trying to remain hidden by masks of professionalism. They wear long white coats, pants and shoes. They blend into the room so well it looks as if their heads are floating, unsuspended before me. I giggle, they freeze. The whispers demand red, demand the paint. The restraints are strong. The mouths on the disembodied heads are moving. Why? Talking, the whispers tell me. To who? Aloria. They grow impatient with me. Who is that? YOU! They are screaming at me now. Oh, yes. That's right. Me. I am Aloria. The whispers are calm now that I understand. They can be so pushy. I focus once more on the floating heads. The male's mouth is still moving. I focus harder. The words finally reaching me, I hear them now. A hand crosses my vision, then again in the opposite direction.
"Can you hear me Aloria?" the male head asks me. It must be his hand that is so annoyingly persistent in front of my eyes. I lean forward quickly, as much as the leather straps will allow and catch the bothersome hand between my teeth. Soft. The skin breaks. Red! The whispers are happy. I release the hand and smile; the man is not as pleased. The paint runs down my chin.
"I don't hear with my eyes." I tell the heads softly. The man hurries to a small window in the wall, the wall moves. A door! The fear has grown tremendously.
"That was very mean of you Aloria." The female head tells me, as if scolding a child. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and stick out my tongue for good measure.
"I don't hear with my eyes." I tell her again. The head bobs up and down comically. I giggle again.
"Do you know where you are?" the head asks. The whispers supply no answer so I must improvise.
"Here." I tell her.
"But do you know where here is?"
"It's where I am. Arrow on the map points! You are HERE! It's always where you are and never where you aren't. Did you not know that? You must get lost often. Are you lost now?"
"I am not lost. I know where I am. I want to know if you know where you are." The ones in white are always patient.
"I am where you are. You are with me! We are together where we are! So there, you answered your own question. You must be proud. We are here! We are together so we won't get lonely. Isn't that nice?" She writes something down on her clipboard. The action irritates the whispers. They don't like her. They are getting loud. "Shhh!" I tell them. She scribbles some more.
"Who are you talking to Aloria? It says here in your file that you hear voices. What are they telling you?" she looks politely curious. The whispers say she is bad, I believe them.
"They want to paint the roses red. Someone planted white ones! Off with your head! Oops, to late, someone beat me to it, already floating about. No strings attached. Painting the roses red, red, RED!" she jumps and I laugh.