Alone in the White

All alone sitting in a chair, in a room:

white room black chair. Hours sitting, waiting. Tubes in one arm, machine yelling at me when I move wrong. Cuff on the other, restrained and stuck in this chair I sit, and wait. Arm itching tube itching. Wait for the bag at the end of the tube to be empty, waiting for it to be done, then I don’t have to be in the chair.

A cold room, cool; stripped of my armor, my protection, left skin bare in the room. Draped across my back it sits, offering scant protection, I’m not allowed to have it anymore, not with the cuffs and the tubes. The machine that beeps when I move wrong, when things get kinked or tangled, or it simply wants to yell. The steady hum drones on. The cuff inflates, and I can’t move my arm, straight out its held, uncomfortable, and tight. The cuff tightens and release, tightens and release, until a final tone sounds its done, again in time I know, again and again.

All alone with no one to talk to, just the phone to read, the keeper to check in, and leave. Hungry and cold sitting waiting. Bright and white sits the room, horrible in its starkness. Missing my warm dark lair, wanting  go back again, wanting to get out, and knowing I can’t.

Bag sags, emptied of its contents, contents in me now, almost done. The bag empty, back to the dark I go, the warm. Out of the light, bright and painful, dark and warm…

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