Written by Matt Colling
“Your room.”
The guard is cool and indifferent as he opens the metal door. A door just as unwelcoming as the rest of the facility. The other side of the door, however, offers a pleasant surprise. It is plush, offering a comfortable couch in the center. In front of it is a fashionable table with drawers on all sides. Behind the couch is a door, built into the wall. It seems homely.
It is not the sort of homely that welcomes many guests. It is too tidy. Fastidiously clean. There is something else that seems off, but I cannot identify it. I inspect the room more closely as I enter, the guard remaining posted at the door. His silence is oppressive.
“Where is my bed?”
“There.” The guard is pointing at the couch.
“Where can I find blankets? And pillows?”
The guard points again, now to the table in front of the couch. He doesn’t seem too interested in telling me about his day, so I choose to leave the rest of the room to my explorations. After all, this is going to be my home for the next three weeks.
Three weeks.
I have never considered how long a day is, let alone a week. The door clunks shut behind me. I look back as I hear the lock click. Twenty-one days, they had told me. Twenty-one days alone in exchange for free room and board, and some cash when I leave. I just have to spend twenty-one days alone. The silence is oppressive, but it can’t be that bad.
Something about this room still feels wrong.
I wander the perimeter of the room. It seems perfectly square; all the doors perfectly flush with the wall. I pass the entrance a few times on my hunt to find some form of texture. The entirety of the wall is the same. I divert my attention to the carpet, which seems comfortable, only to realize I am still wearing my shoes. I find my way to the couch to take them off and lay down.
Much like the rest of the room, the couch has little texture, but it does morph around my figure, offering some semblance of luxury in this room. I reach over to one of the drawers on the table in front to find a blanket. As I open the drawer, I am blinded by its contents. I look back at it, trying to understand why the blankets are so mesmerizing.
There is no design to them, just a bright monochrome. But they are beautiful. I lift them up and hold them at arm’s length. Nothing. I bring them to my face to smell the detergent. Nothing. After what might be minutes of studying the blankets, I throw them on the table and slump back on the couch, staring up at the dark ceiling.
That wasn’t dark before.
I look back down at the blanket on the table. The table is darker now. The lighting didn’t change though. The blankets are just bright. The room is grey. Dark.
Monochrome.
“What did I sign up for?” I pull the blankets over me, hiding in their brightness. I breathe deep, exhale, and repeat, trying to ease my anxiety somehow. The room, the oppressive silence, just consumes my breath. I wrap myself tighter.
“Three weeks.”
“SUBJECT 10-2”
I shoot up at the sound of this. Where the hell is that coming from?
“SUBJECT 10-2, COMPLETE YOUR TASK.”
The voice has no emotion, complementing the silence with sinister tones. Behind the couch, the door in the wall clicks. I slowly rise, letting the blankets and all their brightness fall to my feet, cautiously approaching the door. It is propped open just slightly, no longer flush with the wall. Inside is the same color as the door and the wall, offering no mystery. Just a dull gray. Hanging inside is a change of clothes just as bleak as the rest of the room.
Muted.
“SUBJECT 10-2, COMPLETE YOUR TASK IMMEDIATELY.”
I strip off my clothes. A plain blue shirt, dark jeans, and black shoes, and bright, white socks. Comfortable with a splash of color. I make sure to fold each article delicately. It might be three weeks until I can see color like this again. I take my change of clothes out of the closet, slipping into each with a sense of apprehension. Gray shirt, gray pants, gray socks. As I close the closet, I hear a click and then –
Silence.
The room is silent. There is no sound, no color. I lay on the couch again, clutching the blankets to my chest in a wad, desperately trying to sniff any sensation. Nothing.
“Three weeks.” I cry silently so that I do not disturb the room.
*
“SUBJECT 10-2, YOUR MEAL.”
The closet clicks again. I cannot remember how many days it has been. I remember trying to keep track. I have forgotten how long ago that was. Instead, I retrieve my meal. It is the same as it always has been, white bread and one unseasoned egg-white served on a dull, gray plate. Food devoid of all possible colors. I eat only to avoid the voice again.
This is my routine. Eat, blankets. Bathe, blankets. Eat, blankets. Bathe, blankets. My life has become as dull as the room around me. My life has grown –
Monochrome.
I am too numb to cry. Instead, I place my plate in the closet.
Tap… Click.
I return to my blankets, my solace. The one place that the dull walls cannot reach. Should I sleep? What if I want to do that later? I laugh at my own dullness. Who gives a damn? The room holds no secrets, no surprises, no adventure. It has no color. It is Dull. Gray.
Click.
I peak out of my hiding place. The door never clicks without a warning from the voice. What is going on? Still wrapped in my blankets, I move around the couch, bare feet burying into the carpet, anxious for comfort. They dig deeper as I open the closet door. Inside is something that used to be familiar. I lift it to my face, discovering a cap that I open. I squeezed it too hard, causing it to burst onto my face, clothes, and the dull carpet, staining them…
Blue.
“Paint!” I sob as I wipe its vibrance from my face. Inside the closet, there are also brushes. No canvas. Desperate, I rush about the room, trying to find one item I can paint. It isn’t until I feel the air moving about me that I realize that I have dropped… “My blankets!” They are white, desperate to attain vibrance. I splay them out and fulfill their wish, bathing them in color. I am not worried about getting the paint on myself. I have grown dull, blending into the room. “I need to be bright!”
I squeal, rejuvenated by the radiance of the blue. I squirt globs onto the top of the blanket, swirling it around. The paint coats the blanket, the carpet, my hands! My squeals become laughs, color returning to my world. The smell of paint coats my lungs as my world, my solace, becomes blue. My squeals, my laughs, become sobs as I begin to slow my frantic strokes.
How long have I missed this? I cannot bring this thought to my lips. I have forgotten how to speak. All they wish to create is noise, a sad melody of heaves and sniffles. I don’t fight it. It is colorful. Something I have forgotten. I continue painting as I sob, moving slowly now, savoring each stroke as if it were the last I would ever make. How long? I allow the blue to fade as it moves down the blanket, creating a spectrum of color, from the ocean to the sky. Once I finish the blanket, I have a quarter of the bottle left. Still sobbing, I lift myself and go to the closet.
My only access to an outside world.
I paint the door of the closet, being careful so that I can cover all of it. With the final drop of vibrance, I am able to finish the door. Blue. I place the supplies back into the closet and close it.
Click.
I tap back in thanks before curling up on the sofa without my blankets, letting them dry. They are no longer muted.
*
CLUNK!
I awake with a start. That came from the door!
Click.
It locks. Someone was in my room. Why don’t I smell paint?
My blankets are missing.
“SUBJECT 10-2, COMPLETE YOUR TASK AND EAT.”
Click.
I look at the closet door. It is dull. Gray.
Muted.
I throw open the closet door. Inside is a fresh change of gray clothes and applesauce. I pick up the applesauce and smell it. No odor. It is colorless.
“Why…” I whisper. “WHY?” I scream as I throw the applesauce at the muted walls. As the gray bowl hits, it shatters, but I am too numb to hear the sound. I begin wailing, but I cannot hear myself either.
Color… I need color!
I rush to the wall, finding a shard of the colorless bowl. I will give you color. I jam the shard into my forearm, trying to release the paint from my veins.
“I will paint this whole fucking room red!”
As I scream, men rush into the room and pin me to the ground. I continue to scream as they inject me with something. Their faces are dull. Colorless.
Muted!
I continue screaming. I must paint the room. “MUST!” I struggle against them as I begin to feel numb. My muscles relax, my eyes grow heavy. When the men let go, I take a swing at them, but I can barely lift my arm. I flop back on the ground.
I am muted.