A Talking Door - Mental Hospital 1

I sit with the wall against my back. The wall refuses to move despite endless requests. The door opens and closes its mouth, it wishes to say something, but nothing comes of it, only its letterbox chatters ceaselessly and without any deep meaning to it, drops hints every now and then. The wall is annoyed with the door, but I am fed up with the noise. I stand to try and look out the window, but... This place hushed in shadow. If only I can remember where I went this night, they did throw me in, away from light. I roll up the walls like a Persian rug, smother the clatter of the metallic letterbox that tries to say goodbye in a thousand words. I hear its muffled apologies. I see a hundred neatly white, folded paper sheets fall at my feet, covered in coloured sentences. I throw shadows at the wall, words at the door, colours at the ceiling; demons increase my estrangement in the small room, then the walls suddenly turn soft and white, my arms are bound behind my back. Fog dissolves in faithful whispers. Demons grow faces and white clothes. Mouths with broad smiles talk in tongues (heard, understood), carry syringes and multi-coloured pills. And day begins. *** May 1, 2017 Copyright © Darren White