"Well Alice I think today has been very productive, nice work" the women in front of me said, leaning in too far, too close to my face. I could see a blackhead centered on her heavily rouged cheeks, peeking out behind layers of concealer that didn't quite match her skin tone. Her breath smelled like coffee. She adjusted her perfectly tailored suit and reached out a hand to help me up. I didn't take it. Her nails were chipped and painted a deep red. They matched her lips and the smudges on her front teeth. Red, the color of roses and apples and blood. Scarlet, Wine, Sienna, Maroon. Red is the color of sacrifice, and courage. The couch I sat on was also red. It was rough, fake leather and bore the scars of so many others. There was a hole leaking stuffing in one of the cushions. Someone had scratched the arm rest with a black pen. A patchy stain the color of dirt was next to my thigh.
"Alice?" a voice called out to me. It wasn't the woman. I looked up. A man stood next to the door. He was tall and muscular with the skin the color of hot chocolate. He was dressed in all white. He pretended not to notice I was digging my fingernails into my forearm. I pretended not to notice the syringe not so discreetly hidden behind his back.
"Alice, We don't need another incident today do we?" This time it was the women who spoke. Her voice was inquiring and faked sincerity. I stood up slowly and brushed off my lap, not that anything was on it. I flashed a forced, measured grin. They like it when you smile.
"No, we don't Mrs. Roshand" I replied obediently.
"Splendid, why don't you go to your room now?" It wasn't a question so I didn't answer. I smiled again and let the man lead me out of the room as the Mrs. Roshand waved farewell cheerily. We walked down the hallway together. The walls were a sterile white color. But they were spotted with cheerful bright posters every couple of feet. Like chicken pocks on a sick child.