'29'

I walked into the room, nothing in hand. It was so cold here; like all the hope and happiness had left. There was a purple platform that went about a foot off the ground to my left, separated into three parts. The first was only three feet by three feet, give or take. The next section held a mattress; it was only covered in such off-white sheets, coarse and stiff to the touch. The headboard- if you would even call it that- went up roughly a foot off the mattress. I leveled off again, acting as a makeshift desk with a very plastic and very purple chair that you would normally see in preschool. It didn't smell like home- of me. So… it wasn't my room?

My bed. Not my bed? No, just… sitting on a bed. The plop down confirmed it was made out of cheap plastic; the middle went down with me and the two far ends went up and hit again with a sharp fwap! The smell when I did that- oh, I thought I would die! The cleanser from the room, mixed with bleach and strong detergent from the sheets, wafted up my nose and sent it on overload; it was like- no!- worse than having to clean the bathroom!

There are two doors, both closed, tall- almost touching the ceiling- and very intimidating, too. They don't look like they're made out of wood, or even metal. The door to my right, I note, has an eyehole; you can't see out it, though. Does that mean you can see in? I can open this door, or leave it closed, they say. I opt to leave the door open at night. When they come to check in on you, they try to be quiet but the sound echoes terribly in the small room; the door scrapes open and it creaks shut with a loud, reverberating click! If I misbehave, they can lock me in.

That happened to the girl in 28; I could hear her pounding her fists against the door… scraping her nails along the door… oh, I can still hear that hollow echo sounding in my years and feel the horror of nails on a chalkboard!

With that door closed, I can see four white, horizontal shelves (the green and blue and purple spotted, sticky floor makes a fifth) and one more, long piece of wood separated those five shelves into ten. I was told these ten shelves could hold my clothes, coats, and shoes; homework, pens, and pencils; whatever I wanted but if, and only if, dad brings them. I was also told he can bring my comforter and pillow- to make it smell more like home. There's no kitty here; they don't use our detergent so the smell is quite different. It's like comparing oranges to carrots; the only thing they have in common is color.

The door across from me was locked when I came in; I had to get a nurse to unlock it for me. Now it stands open and all I can see is gleaming white. When I got up to see what it was, I noticed a shallow sink- in that gleaming white- with a mirror above it; no sharp corners here.

At the far end was a shower. It had a non-slip, built in mat on the shower floor that was so off-white it made the shower- standing in its gleaming white- look dirty. With my hands on my hips, elbows out, I could barely turn around without hitting the sides of the small shower.

And in between that gleaming, off-white shower and the all-too-bright white sink was a toilet. Yes, it was white but it didn't hurt your eyes like the sink did. I would get to know that toilet by only one thing- its god awful and loud flush. I thought it was just mine- maybe it was defective- but whenever someone in 28 or 30 would flush, I scrambled to cover my ears at that deafening, low rumble.

When I exited the bathroom, I looked to the right and saw a window; it was locked, too. When I went to touch it, I didn't feel the smooth glass I was expecting. Instead, my hand hit a rough, wiry screen that covered the locked window. I could tell purple and green and blue were going to haunt me when I noted there was so little and yet so much between me and civilization as they formed the basis of the Aurora Psychiatric Hospital sign.