I wander through the broken halls. Dust, dry paint, and leaves form grotesque cakes along the edges of every hallway, and I find myself sneezing more often than I had before on previous visits. Going through the familiar motions, my feet take me through the ground floor. Graffiti covers the walls in nearly every room. When I have time on my weekend visits, I try to wash away the vulgarities, but they always come back. The thought that someone else could enter my prison, my castle, irks me, but I can do very little about it. Sometimes, I catch the intruders, who promptly run at the sight of me, but that it all.
I pass by the craft room, an irregularity in my usual routine. It seems to be in worse shape than ever, which is fair, since I don’t spend much time in it. Rusty piping trails across the peeling ceiling, and the mangled cot frames lay all across the floor, as if some giant had thrown them in a fit of rage. I smile with grim humor. Considering the setting, it isn’t so outlandish a theory. As I walk through the room, I come across a mural on the side. It depicts an old, balding man in green behind a pottery wheel, sculpting a . . . purple figure? I blink and squint at the art, realizing it is actually a white statue with some paint sprayed across. I shake my head and continue out of the room.
It takes me a few hazardous minutes to reach my final destination. The air is rich with mold and asbestos; I breathe death into my lungs, my blood, my heart, with every breath. My journey takes me through some patient dorms. I see sickly green and yellow pass me by as I look into the rooms. I am so focused on the scenery that, as usual, I trip in front of room 80. Chiding myself, I looked down and see the broken heavy iron doors sprawled across the floors and against the walls.
And then I find myself in front of the isolation rooms. Even with a map of the facility, I had trouble locating this area when I made my first trip here. Every single floor was identical, save for a few subtle hallway coloring differences. Now, after so long, it is no problem. I walk into one at random and settle myself in the center. Directly adjacent to the door is a wall defaced by yet more graffiti. I sit and face it silently, its blue chipping away to the floor, marred by the black bubble lettering. I do not know for how long I sit there. Time seems to return to irrelevancy, losing meaning with each passing societally imposed second. With a blank expression, my head turns to the right, to the door. Its ancient aqua is all but gone now, replaced by metallic brown. I slowly rise and trace my fingers across its frame. Suddenly, I am inspired.
What would happen if I closed the door?
What would come of it? Would anyone find me? Would anyone even notice my disappearance? Could I be trapped inside, unable to escape until someone permitted it? Would I finally die, find my freedom? I pause for a second. My thoughts do not seem to be my own. Suddenly, I feel exhausted, the day’s efforts catching up to me. Shaking my head, I trudge over to a cot. Its mattress has been decimated by moths, but I don’t have many better options. I lie on the thin layer and quickly drift off.
I dream of my brother. He is running alongside me in a golden, sunlit field. I am not sure whether the sun is rising or setting. He laughs, and I find myself joining him. We smile and keep running, not away from or to anything, but simply for the purpose of running. Then, the gold fragments with a slight tinge. It is an innocuous orange, and my eyes jerk upward. I realize that it is dusk, and I look back to my side to inform my brother. To my surprise, he has changed. There are splotches covering him now. Green and gray and brown. He is slightly ahead of me now, so I redouble my efforts to catch up. But they are fruitless, and the distance between us becomes more pronounced. The orange tinges further, becoming a deep ugly red. It shines over Joey, and for a moment, he falters. Then, he stumbles and rolls and begins to fall. I cry out and push my legs beyond their limit. I reach him and attempt to hold him upright, but I realize that he is frozen in place. The red is gone now, replaced by a magenta, giving way to amethyst, giving way to insidious indigo. Darkness shrouds us, but I hold onto Joey firmly. I don’t let him go. I’m never going to let go. A wind of black gusts past me, cutting a line of dark red across my cheek, but I nevertheless hold on, even strengthening my grip. I won’t let go.
And I wake to a slap.
