A Story of White

I’ve sat in this white room for the longest time.

Sometimes, they’ll take me out, out into the white hallways, into another white room, with people wearing white.

I no longer paid attention to whatever was being said, only subjugating myself to whatever torturous event was to come.

If I imagined I was a doll, nothing would hurt. Nothing they did no longer hurt. I was only a doll, so I couldn’t feel anything. If I think that it doesn’t hurt, then it won’t hurt. If I think this body of mine was the body of a doll, then I won’t feel pain.

Like this, I could bear anything.

Sometimes I would think of that person. The one I had lived with before, now in a different room than mine. Back then, that person would always try to comfort me, always telling me of his dreams of flight, of the outside world that wasn’t white. And I would always smile, because that would make that person happy.

And whenever I thought of that person, I would think, as long as that person was happy, then it didn’t matter what happened to me.

Because that person was more important to me than I was.