This is Just a Dream
The room was square, white, and uniform. Not a single decoration or splash of color disfigured the pristine white of the walls. The floor was bare, with only a steel bed frame holding an old mattress scarring the blank space of the room. There was no joy, no individuality, no life.
It was just a dream
There was a person in the room. They were dressed in clothes that might have been as white as the room once, but had since been stained with crusty brown and sickly yellow. The person broke up the white with their dark skin and darker hair. Scars ran up and down their face, and many teeth were missing from their mouth. The nail beds on their toes and fingers had been picked away at, so that they were scabbed and bleeding. Their hair was matted and tangled, and there were patches falling away from their skull.
Just a dream, they told themselves. It’s just a dream.
The walls were soft and plush, as though draped with quilts made with no creativity. The padding on the walls was the only thing that made the room feel the least bit warm and safe. The bed frame was harshly made. It had no refined lines or details, but was just a crude shape made of cut metal. The mattress was as stained as the person’s clothes, and had rips and tears in the sides. It leaked fiber fill everyday.
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