A Story of White

For the longest time, I’ve been living in this white room. I’ve always been here; if I had ever lived anywhere else before hand, I could not remember. Even before I could speak, I was in the confines of this white room. Always in this white room, always surrounded with white.

My earliest memory consisted only of white. White was everywhere. Back then, my sister lived here with me. Back then, my sister and I, we were always visited by people; at first, they were just people who taught us words, taught us about the world. They were nice people, full of interesting stories, even though they could not tell us much, were not allowed to tell us much. Often times they would just simply watch us as we ate, their eyes full of sadness. We didn’t understand why then; we were happy enough that they were present in the first place. At least they weren’t wearing white. Whenever they visited, my sister and I could even forget the whiteness that nearly drove us mad, even if it was only temporary respite. If it weren’t for them, I might have gone insane long ago. Even now, even though they never visit anymore, their words give me hope in the confines of this white prison.

Of course, my sister is no longer here. I am alone, all alone, in this dark, white room.