Long, white hallways, with plain, white walls. With white clad bodies purposefully striding towards their next destination, with others that glance and shift about in their empty, white rooms. Everything in that place was made white, everything made the same, yet everything in that place was set apart, everything made different. White apart from white.
Perhaps white was too high of an expectation. In a black and white world, anything too dark a shade of grey was considered a threat. In a black and white world, where there was no true black or no true white, those who feel themselves less tainted take it upon themselves to decide what is too dark to be white. Perhaps this is why the mental hospital is swathed in white - to make the lighter of the greys feel pure and for those very people to try and make the white of the atmosphere seep into the darker of them in which they raise themselves above.
An illusion, white can be. Or perhaps, people prefer to see that illusion. Prefer to think themselves as pure white, rising above those they keep locked away - those whose minds they feel are too dark, and will corrupt their society with their illness. Perhaps that is why they have locked the mental patients there, at the mental hospital. Maybe it makes them feel better about themselves. Maybe they like to think they're any different from the ones they keep hidden from the rest. In the end, it all comes down to people all dressed in white, some made different, darker, than the others, by one of the group's choosing, when in reality, they are all the same.
There is one, perhaps, that stands apart from the white. No darker than the nurses that roam the halls, no lighter than the homocidal maniacs in the rooms. Yet he differs from the norm, all the while. Clad not in white but a light brown coat, he, too, walked down the hallways.
His destination was that of one of the patients, who resided deep within the mental hospital. This man, of whom Dr. Loomis, the brown clad man with a noticeable limp, came to observe, was perhaps one of the most mind-baffling, disturbed, and... dangerous, of the patients there. As a six year old boy, he brutally murdered his older sister with a kitchen knife, and uttered not a word ever since. This man was impossible to read, impossible to interpret. Even those insane patients who lived there lives huddled in the corner of their padded rooms, rambling incoherent nonsense, were easier to understand than him, for they, at least, spoke something, did something. Their actions could possibly be deciphered from tiny little clues in their body language or mutterings, possibly be understood. But not him.
He never moved an inch, he never spoke a word, he seemed oblivious to the world around him, focused in his own little world. For fifteen years, Dr. Loomis, and others, have tried to figure out just what was going on in his mind. Tried to figure out, why a six-year old boy would have snapped and done something like that, why he never showed any sign of expression, why he never spoke a word of defense or remorse, or vengence, for that matter. As years went on, they had simply given up. No amount of observation, no amount of time spent watching the man stare into oblivion would anyone ever gain an understanding of him. So they stopped trying.
With nothing more they knew to do, they swore they would do everything they could to do one simple thing - keep him there. Keep him where he would remain harmless, keep him where he was still under control, keep him away so they wouldn't have to bear the sight of him - the constant reminder of them not knowing what to do with him.
He became invisible, eventually. They kept him alive, but little more. Dr. Loomis still came and observed him but there was no longer hope, no longer that drive to learn more. Nothing could be learned from what they were given. If anything, the man only gave them more questions to ponder than answers.
Which was why Dr. Loomis had a set frown on his face as he walked into the observation room. He didn't expect to gain anything. He didn't expect to know any more when he left than when he had come through the door. But still he came. Perhaps it was fascination. Perhaps it was devotion. Perhaps it was... obligation. As if the man was his responsibility, and it was part of that responibility to try and continue to learn what he could. So he sat, and he observed.
There was little to observe. Perhaps the more accurate statement would be, there was nothing apart from the ordinary to be observed. He simply sat, staring at the white wall, as if seeing something past that wall and yonder. His eyes were unmoving, as the psychiatrist stared intently at them. Light brown eyes, but all Dr. Loomis saw was black. Black eyes. Fit for a void soul.
That is what the man staring at the wall seemed to be, void, lifeless. Not once has he made a sound, not once did he appear to show the faintest bit of emotion. Yet now, something seemed to be stirring in Michael.
No one else would have noticed. The aged man had known this patient for many years, and he, of all people, knew him the best. Perhaps it was nothing but, it seemed as if Michael was... anxious. Maybe it was the way his eyes flicked down occasionally to his hands, of which were rested neatly on his lap. Or maybe it was the subtle tensed posture of which was normally relaxed. Whatever it was, Dr. Loomis saw it, and was distinctly intrigued by it. It wasn't long, however, that the other became as still and empty as he always was.
With a sigh, the doctor eventually left, noting that it's been fifteen years, and he was still as baffled as when he was dealing with the six year old boy.
Back in his little room, Michael was patiently waiting. It wouldn't be long now. It was very nearly Halloween. It was very nearly time for him to return home.