I Painted the Walls

Yes, this one is...uh...not for the faint of heart. Read at your own risks.

I live in a house devoid of color. The blank walls and floor--for what it's worth, they are scarcely able to be distinguished--bear nothing except the image of a densely foggy and bleak landscape, so densely shrouded that no land or anything of the sort can be seen. I don't leave my house, because the outside world is a strange place compared to this small space in which I can feel completely at home, but even I can understand that this is not natural. No, it is just...not natural. I can't stand looking at the same white environment.

These walls...

I hate these walls...

I need to decorate my new house with at least some color. It's a good thing I've started gathering my paint. It's starting to stain my once colorless clothes already, instilling a thrill inside of me. Alas, the joy of color had been taken from me the day after I'd arrived at this new house. A mean lady took my colorful candy away, as if she were a bully taking lunch money. Oh, how I loved that candy! It made me feel like a child again, eating Skittles to the point of a glorious sugar rush. Now I can't enjoy the euphoria of those colored candies anymore, so I guess painting the house will satisfy me for now. Just for now.

I can't use a paintbrush anymore because I'm not allowed to have one. Who says that will hinder me, though? I have hands and fingers and fingernails. If the colorful candies can't bring me back to my childhood any longer, finger-painting surely will! I've already extracted my paint with my own bare hands, rather than going in with a brush. I like the way the paint feels on my fingers, and the colors excite me to the point of giddiness. I giggle like a kid as I smear my hands on the wall, for the sound of it splattering against the blandness is almost as enticing as the visible splash of color. All the colors of the rainbow: purple, yellow, blue, green, et cetera. 

Red is my favorite color, so I use it the most. It reminds me of roses and sunsets.  

Smiling wide, I continue to scoop paint onto my fingertips and paint each wall around me. Ah, a masterpiece! My masterpiece!

----

The doctor has been perusing the information of the new patient, Mr. Dickinson, for the last five minutes. Even with a cigar in hand and a mug of hot coffee within reach, he is experiencing the normal ill-at-ease feeling he always feels at work. This feeling only escalates when the alarms go off.

There is a disturbance in Room 35 of the asylum.

Mr Dickinson's room.

Cursing, the doctor tosses his cigar before standing and turning into the corridor. As always, he ignores the terrible sounds swarming around him as he advances. He expertly rounds corners in the monotonously designed building before reaching Room 35. This is the first time he'll see Mr. Dickinson since the latter's arrival two days ago, and he isn't particularly looking forward to it. Sighing, he turns the knob and strides inside.

He stops dead in his tracks after a couple of steps, just managing to swallow back the vomit in his throat in spite of what he's faced with. He covers his mouth with one hand so as not to utter a cry, forcing himself not to run away.

The four walls of the padded cell are haphazardly streaked with crimson blood, which is dripping onto the floor in several areas. Mr. Dickinson, with his clothing stained just as badly, is violently and rhythmically clawing at his arm with one hand while muttering the word "masterpiece" to himself over and over again with unnatural speed. It seems as if he's nearly cut down to the vein, for blood is continuously pulsing from the scratches and spilling around him. The entire room smells unbearably horrid.

Mr. Dickinson, realizing someone has entered, briskly turns his head around to stare blankly at the doctor. His mouth is agape in a manic smile, his head cocked slightly to the side. As his arm continues to bleed from where he tore his flesh off, Mr. Dickinson starts to slur words in an almost indecipherable way, twitching and giggling in between:

"I...painted...the walls."

Author's Note

I do not write in present tense often, so this was outside of my comfort zone! Feel free to let me know if I've unintentionally used a past tense verb in here.

Reviews

[songstress]

wow...that's beautiful in a grotesque way. when I read this and your profile I initially expected a nature based piece.Richard Adams did watership down, right? that piece was certainly mad.

and the way you discuss moving, and the white walls, and the paint-conveys an idea of normality. like someone moving into a cabin. until you switch perspectives and describe the gory scene before you.

well, done with the pacing, POV, and descriptions.