title: decorum
disclaimer: disclaimed
n1: this is a fiction up for vote on my poll. just a teaser on what I managed to get out before break hits. i felt as though this would kinda go towards the season.
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yuletide suicides
-you know. some cultures actually revere insanity.
just not this one.
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The asylum is never quiet. During the day it rattles with the sounds of rolling carts and bustling nurses. An occasional wind blew through causing baskets to tumble and papers to rustle, but without that- the asylum was just busy. Chattering of visitors, cheerful tones of doctors and sarcastic and bitter nurses that dash their bright tones with a dash of a sickly honey.
It'll kill you if you don't focus.
Cars purr from outside, doors swing forth and slam shut, dropping of pills cause soft clanking in the back rooms. But of course not a soul from the outside sees that far ahead. No one even bothers to look.
Feet thud on the floor and that clock-that damned clock ticks. The seconds edge away, the seconds into minutes, the minutes into hours-damn it! Stop with the damn ticking! And with the hours slipping by, so does the sunlight. And so does the day.
Yellow turns into red bloodbloodblood give it to me. The red turns into orange the sweetcolors of arson. And before the hour is done, the orange has faded away, giving away into utter darkness.
Ticking's bruised the sky.
and so the hands slide by going tick tik tic.
The asylum is never quiet. Day is gone, night has replaced it, but it can be heard now. Each creak of the floorboards, every squeak the dry metallic beds make as its occupant turns in them. Midnight howls. Clanking occurs. Forget the rackling sound of dinner carts wheeling over the linoleum, that sound of metal on the floor is a razor-knife-leaded pencil hitting the floor with a pool of crimson leaking out to follow it.
Call it silence.
Please.
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His walls are sheer white. Spotless, stainless, not a hint of the color he so craved over them. The walls were empty, blanker than a sheet of notebook paper. Blank.
He licked his lips.
Was it time for him to take some notes?
Shadows flickered across the room, the lone window allowing the etchings of tree branches and buildings, of birds and flowers and seeds and cars, with grass sky and ohgod- freedom.
The freedom flickered across his barren walls. It shifted and shuttered- just like he did, and it made him want to claw his way out of here. He wanted his blood to pool into the window pane as his nails were scraped to the bone in his attempts. And if the blood pooled around him and he couldn't escape?
No matter, he'd just paint and paint his white walls red.
They needed the color after all.
[don't ask why he's here.]