I almost died of boredom.
The ceiling had 35 tiles, in 7 rows of 5. I would know because I had counted them- 9 times. Each was a light blue with a rough terrain of bumps. The floor had 48 smaller tiles, in 8 rows of six. I would know because I had counted them 4 times. They were a smooth, polished white with flecks of brown and black, freezing cold beneath my bare feet. The table in front of me was a generic, fake wood that smelled like lemon below my chin, which was resting on cupped hands. I could taste the dryness of my mouth, while I tried to not think of each swallow as a rock rolling down a sandy hill. So far the hill was the size of Mount Everest. I could hear the faint rumbling murmur of voices somewhere beyond this interrogation room. Sometimes I made up conversations for them, other times I pretended it was the sound of the world falling apart around me, unable to penetrate these four walls. But most of the time I slept, not patient enough to face the endless nothing.
The light from the window could only reach the floor. Steep mountains and plunging valleys were made of the textured wood grains of the flooring. Harsh shadows cluttered the area around them, overlapping to form an intermittent carpet of black, like the shadows of storm clouds over a landscape. Dust motes floated through the air, and a layer had settled over the ground. I imagined one would taste the staleness in every breath. The legs of the hospital bed rose like towers from the miniature terrain, reaching far above their foundations. I could almost hear them struggling to remain upright, all the while fighting the weight of dust. Then my breath fogged the window in the door and I could see no more.