White Walls

                  I am somewhat hungry as I sit and stare at the T.V. screen.  It is nothing too distracting, just a dull throb in the pit of my stomach.  Well, it is distracting.  Instead of focusing on whatever music television show I am watching, I am thinking about my stomach. 

         "Jules, its dinner time!" my mother shouts from the other room.  I hate it when she calls me that.  Jules, another name for Julia, is the unfortunate nick name that follows me everywhere.  I am not a jewel or gem, why should I be reminded of that?  Besides, I don’t want to be something so cold and meaningless.  Why couldn’t I be named something like Sky or Leaf?

         "Nah, mom, I'm not hungry," I lie.  It's alright, she won't freak out.  She thinks I am too fat anyways.  It's what I get for being born into a perfect middle class family.  And besides, I like to feel hungry.  I don't like to feel starved, but just barely hungry enough to feel it.  I suppose some people would call me crazy for it, but at least I tell the truth.  I'll get a piece of chocolate to hold me over.

         Time passes slowly as I eat my chocolate.  There is a knock at the door.  My mother appears without waiting for my response.

         "Jules, we are worried about you," she tries to hug me.  DENIED.  I move skillfully out from under her, moving to reach my remote.

         "What about me?" I ask suspiciously, putting my TV on mute.  She tries to touch my arm. Once again, denied. I pretend I have an itch on my shoulder.  I do not like it when she touches me.

         "THIS!" she screams.  I am shocked, this is not normal.  None of this is.  As horrible as it sounds, my parents have never been "worried" about me.  There has never been any mention of worry, concern, or anything else most parents seem to get.  I know how I feel, and they don’t need in my head.  Besides, it’s dark and scary in there.  I would hate to disrupt their idea of a perfect world with my thoughts.

         "Calm down, Mom. Tell me what's wrong," I say coarsely, my voice catching in my throat.  I look her in the eye and something shifts.  Just for a second, I see a rough man's face in place of her delicate features.  It was as if there was technical glitch in a computer program.

         "Ju---" the voice glitches and the room shifts.  I see white walls with multicolored wires cast about.  There are harsh voices around me speaking in a language I do not understand.  I close my eyes for a bit longer than a second.  When I open them, I am back in my room with my mother sitting on the edge of my bed.

         Only, this woman isn’t my mother.  She looks similar to her, but everything from her head to her feet is just the wrong color.  It was as if someone had dumped her in a pinkish dye, changing every aspect of her color.  She also looks pixilated, as if she were an animation.

         "Oh, honey, you look as if you've seen a ghost!" she says, her voice even and off a couple keys.  Am I dreaming?  I must be.

         "Heh, I'm alright.  Just a bit spooked.  Why are you in my room again?" I ask quietly.

         "Oh, Sara! You are so funny! I am here to discuss what you want to do with your room!" Not-mom says enthusiastically.  I look around and see shades of pink surrounding me. "You've had this childish pink long enough!"

         "I am not Sara.  This isn't my room," my voice is shaking now.  Not-mom laughs hysterically and I am on the verge of hysteria.

         "Oh, Sara!  You are too much!" Not-Mom says pinching my cheek.  Only, she wasn't actually pinching my cheek.  Her hand made the proper cheek-pinching motion, only I felt nothing. 

         I stand up and try to push her away.  I throw all my weight into it.  My hand goes straight through her chest and I feel myself smack down on a hard metal surface that was once my bed.  I touch my hand to my forehead; there is blood there.  I feel the outline of a large cut.

         I roll over and look around to see that I am back in the white room.  I slowly climb to my feet to see men in white suits rushing about.  They are all speaking that strange language as before.  Suddenly, I feel two hands shoving me down and a needle in my side.  Everything grows soft and fuzzy, then slowly fades to black.

         When I come to, I am back in my room.  Everything is in the right position, right down to the chocolate wrapper on the floor.  I bring my hand to my head and feel the spot where there should be blood. There is nothing but a scab.

         As I touch it I am launched into a memory of me falling and hitting my head.  Only, this isn’t my memory.  I do not remember it happening, but somehow it is there, tied into my thoughts. It is as if there is a patch covering part of my mind.  I try to think my way around it, and unexpectedly I remember white walls with men dressed to match.

         I am abruptly driven to move.  I search my room, throwing piles of clothes and a book everywhere, just wanting to find some sort of evidence of the memory I cannot fully grasp.  I hope it is a dream, even though it is too real to be.  Just as I finish that thought, I think I find what I am looking for.

         There is a switch behind my bookshelf (which is currently lying on the floor out of my rage).  I flip it.  Nothing.  No change at all.  I prepare to let out a sigh of relief. Then lights begin to flicker.  The floor starts to shake. 

         At first I reach for something to grab onto, but then I realize that I am not actually moving.  I close my eyes and everything stops moving, I open them and I feel the need to shake and wobble.  With my eyes firmly shut, I move in the direction of what I think is the door.  As I reach for the door knob, I hear a siren in the distance.

         It grows louder.  Faster.  Soon all I can hear is the sound of the siren; it consumes me, seemingly controlling me.  I feel my heart beat in the pattern of the noise.  Then, the thing that was once my door slides forward, letting out an unfamiliar metallic screech.

         I begin to run forward, my steps beating to the sound of the siren.  There are sharp pains all over my body.  I look down to see myself in something similar to medical scrubs, with wires all around my feet.  There is no mistake as to where those wires were attached; I have beads of blood up and down my arms and legs.

         My bare feet slap on the ground as I run.  I do not know where I am headed, or where I am for that matter, I just keep running.  I hear the sounds of people shouting over the sirens.  Again, it is the language I do not understand. It intimidates me.  I want to stop where I am, but my feet keep pushing forward.  I seem to have lost all control.

         I slam into a wall, and everything around me grows fuzzy.  The voices behind me get louder.  I won't let myself get caught this time.  I hang onto consciousness.  There is a sickening pain in my head and my mouth fills with bile.  I spit and stand, flipping my wild hair out of my face.

         I take a step and stumble.  The room is spinning.  The voices are louder.  I take a step more, and fall forward into darkness.

         I open my eyes and find myself in my room again.  Everything is the same as I left it, post-trashing.  There is a soft knock at the door and in walks my mother.

         "Jules, we are worried about you," she says nervously, playing with the hem of her skirt.

         "What is going on?" I ask slowly, my voice reveling my fear.  I move away from her, afraid of the transition I know is there.  I feel the fear corrode anything that might have been courage away as there is another knock at the door.

         Two men in white suits walk in.

         "MOM! Keep them away from me!" I shout, shoving myself deeper into my corner.  I taste bile in my mouth, and my hand flies up to my forehead where I imagine the cut to be. 

         "Jules, baby, they are here to help," she says, choking back tears.

         "I don't need any help!" I feel as if I am a person being sent to rehab or an asylum.  The men walk forward.  One of them winks at me.  Suddenly, I am not afraid.  I stand up and take the man's hand.

         "It will be alright, sugar. They are here to help," my mother says, a single tear running down her face.  She looks as if she is caught between giving me a hug and turning and running.  She meets somewhere in the middle and shakes my hand.  The man pulls me to the door.

         "Welcome to the real world, doll face," he whispers in my ear with a funny accent.  A twinge of sarcasm is present on his tongue. "Everything will be alright.  It seems you have fried your simulation system. Congrats."

         He continues speaking as I step into a large room with bleach white walls.  My scrubs are dotted with blood, and I trip on a multicolored wire, stumbling into a new world.