Shaeleen Hughes
Creative Writing E
Mr. Smith
This room is so white. It is not off-white, it is not cream colored, it is white in its absolute purest form, unaffected, bloodless, white. There are thick cushions lining the colorless walls and floors. I have absolutely no idea why I am here, or where I am. I’ve only ever heard of complete nutcases going into places like this, and believe me, I am the sanest of the sane, the most normal there is, an incredibly average human being. Why am I in a place for crazy people? I don’t understand it. I bet I’m just dreaming. Yeah, I’m totally dreaming.
There are butterflies of all colors flying all around the room now. They’re so beautiful, but they keep flying into the walls. They should know better. They’ll die if they do that. “STOP FLYING AT THE WALLS YOU IDIOTS! YOU’RE RUINING YOUR WINGS!” I suddenly hear a series of clicks on one of the walls. It’s a door beginning to open. A nurse peeks her head through the door. She is wearing typical nurse gear of a typical, normal person, just like me. “Is everything alright Mr. Smith?” “No, everything's not alright. All the butterflies are dead and I don’t know where I am.”
How is she not grasping what is wrong here? I think I was wrong about her. I think she’s a basket case. Maybe I’m a king and these are all my slaves. Yeah, I probably adopted a bunch of crazy orphans to help out around my futuristic home, and this is my bedroom. “Go make me some pancakes, you slave.” She promptly closed the door. What the hell? What a waste of money, I should’ve known to go with perfectly normal orphans.
My memory is slowly coming back to me. I remember owning an apartment in Manhattan when I was sixty. It was a tough time for America, the civil war. I was desperately in love with a beautiful woman, her father was an Indian chief. He hated me at first, then he came to realize that I wanted nothing but the best for his beloved daughter, Pocahontas. Things didn’t work out though, she was too much of a feminist for me, so I killed her. Our kids didn’t seem to mind too much though, she was a real pain. I outlived both of my children; tragic. One of them died in a plane crash in 1871, the pilot was under the influence of ecstasy. The other one died of old age.
There is a giraffe in my room, I swear. He’s eating the butterflies, but I don’t really mind because I’m still dumbfounded by their stupidly. What kind of living thing just aimlessly flies into walls, I’ll tell you what, moronic butterflies. I hate those things. They’re annoying and they do nothing but bring this world down with them.
Anywho, this giraffe is named Kevin and he’s a super cool dude. He’s the kind of guy that you’d want to sit down and have a beer with, you know? Maybe play some guitar, talk about what it was like living during the civil war, it would just feel right. I wish I knew him when I was with Pocahontas, he could’ve helped me get a hold of the ricin, he seems like he would have connections to that sort of stuff. Hopefully we can hangout again soon, but he had to go because he wasn’t feeling too well after gorging on dead butterflies.
I just sit in bedroom now. I kind of want to paint the walls, they’re almost too white. It’s uncomforting. I think I have blue eyes, so I wonder if I took out my eye and rubbed it on the wall, it would make my walls blue. Might as well give it a shot. I dig my long, unkempt fingernails into my eye socket and pull as hard as I can. IT WORKED! I sit here now holding my eyeball in my hand. This is extraordinary! My head has never felt so empty.
My door is abruptly sprung open, and there are three slaves this time. “What’s the problem officers?” I calmly and politely ask. They just ignore me, and start yelling to each other “Get him to the ER. STAT!” Why are they trying to ruin my painting party? This is not okay.
There’s a warm, red liquid gushing from the hole that once held my eye. Out with it comes chunks of this hamburger looking meat. Weird, right? I just want to sleep at this point, and they’re loading me onto this bed-looking thing with wheels. This is just plain weird. I figure I should shut my eye and try to get some rest. One of the slaves says into my ear, “Stay with us Mr. Smith.” Who does she think she is?! “Let me get some rest you dense, irrelevant waste of space.”
I close my eye and the inside of my eyelid is nothing but black. Black in it’s absolute purest form. Thick, all colorful, black.
