Ok…I lied. I wrote another one today….But I'm doing well with my studying and hopefully will be enlisted by April *fingers crossed*. I read a story today called "Red in my Eyes" by mlle-relda. Go read it; it's intriguing. Anyways, what she wrote I got an idea from her. Hers deals with the emotions of being locked away in the "gathering hall" (as I call it) but one question still arises in me, did Amanda, herself become apart of the insane before that tragic night on X-mas eve? Just a basic one shot I came up with. Plus "The Patient" by Tool clicked in my head as well to the waiting thoughts of Amanda Krueger.

I do not own NOES. All rights go to Wes Craven and New Line Cinema.

"Sinfully White"

White.

That's all I see.

White clothes, white bottles, white white white

In my room I see white

White pillows, sheets and bed spreads.

Within that room I have my window, my one way to look at God.

When I find myself not able to look at my window. I falter.

I sink in my own skin; falling to my feel in a puddle of mess.

I am not myself when it comes into the darkness.

They say that "God will light the way, sister; you have to point them in the right direction."

These souls are damned. The hobble in circles, round and round. Right to left. The moan and drool on their clothes.

Their bowls fresh and brown smeared on their bottoms, laced with yellow urine and food.

They pick at it. They think it's delicious.

"mmm..roast beef." They groan as they pick and prod their bodies littered with filth.

Why must I have to talk to them? There's no reason to. They are gone.

Mindless shells of people they proclaimed they were once.

They have nothing.

I have nothing.

The light of God, doesn't shine on me like the rest of the sisters.

It's dim, and I feel the cold lingering around my cheeks.

It makes me sad.

I have to look at these tiresome bodies all day and I find myself not curing them but keeping them company.

I myself find their presence, meaningful.

Like I'm here for a reason. I am not the only one.

The thoughts do linger as I trail off to sleep.

I find myself in the dark, with meandering thoughts of sin

Temptation. Pride. Vanity. Greed. Sloth. Envy. Gluttony.

When I touch myself I think of the patients

I see them everyday, spilling their seed in corners, licking up their mess from their bodies.

It's so disgusting.

But…I can't help but wonder, what does it taste like?

The thought protrudes through my brain and I just imagine the unruliest thoughts.

I ravage myself and then feel the presence of the lingering voluptuous feeling, take over.

The itch; the massage; the tinge; the tickle; then…..overbearing passion.

Then nothing.

It's gone; just like that.

I keep doing it to feel the good. I then cleanse myself of my impure thoughts

Going to confession doesn't help. The father's will look at me as weak.

I. am. Not. Weak.

I wake up and the whole thing begins again.

White curtains, white floors, white doors.

The absence of color, mind you.

I'm encased with it.

The only time I find some solace is when I look at the dark dismal creatures that gather

For counting. There's color.

My mind stops racing. I feel comfort.

They look at me, and their empty faces touch me.

It's warming in a way yet it's scary.

The thoughts won't stop. God, help me.

I can't be in here day after day watching these absent-minded men.

One stares at me all the time.

His name is Ted.

His hair of golden blonde, stained

His piercing blue eyes watch me, follow me

Studying every move that I make.

After counting them I back to my room, to rid my sin.

Ted.

I see him watching me.

It feels so good at times, yet I cry when the tickle resides.

White. White. It holds me down. I want to get away.

I need the impurity to know that I'm still alive.

Not this wondering soul hoping to cast a glimpse at heaven.

There is no Heaven.

There's only me…and them.

Or is it just me?

Are they after me?

Are they here to rid me of my eternal agreement with the Heavenly Father?

Are the brothers and fathers just pawns to throw me off?

I know they are pawns. They are the pawns of the Devil.

I find the glory in me. The sickening tickle I feel every night.

That is heaven.

This is not heaven. It's Hell

I want to feel Heaven.

My confession of this would rattle the mind of the Pope himself.

Would he feel the same way locked in this white prison day in and day out?

Heaven. Where are you?

Are you between my legs, oozing with juices?

Is that why they look at me, because they know my sin?

Can they smell my sin?

Do they see it on my fingers, after I washed until my skin cracks and bleeds?

Do they want my sin? Do they want me?

I want to give in so that I can have clarity from all of this white.

White. White. White. Purity. Such an awful sin.

White is the absence of color, I do not want the color anymore.

I want red, black, brown, grey, yellow.

Those bring in the reality of life.

I want to feel alive.

I want to have the impurity of them

Am I another patient or still a sister of God?
I think the latter that I'm just another patient, plagued with thoughts that I'm a sister of God.

But I'm still here. Seeing all this white; slowing erasing my sanity and replacing with

Nothing.

There's nothing. Only White. I need impurity to rid this prison of vitality; paranoid thoughts over obsession of clean.

Nothing is clean.

I am not clean.

I chose not to be clean.

ooh! That tickle is there again. I want the tickle.

Let me feel heaven again, before the white comes back into my sight.

Eh it was just a small one-shot I thought of when I read that story plus with Tool rolling in my head, it had to come out to something. I think this would be an interesting twist to it all. Eh...weird things come to those who think outside of the box!

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