My mind has turned to mud. Perhaps it was always mud. Or dirt waiting for the water to flow. Thoughts have slowed exponentially during my time here. I wade through the swamp with no end in sight; no landmark to judge the distance I have travelled. No tree branch to grab onto and pull me out. I am stuck in the mud and so I have become it. There is no discernible difference between myself and the thick sludge I am neck deep in.
The tubes keep me alive. I can not move my head or neck to look but from feeling alone I can decipher one inserted into my stomach and two smaller tubes inserted into my urethra and rectum. They each run forwards into the wall in front of me. The tube running into my stomach periodically pumps a brown liquid. It feels cold as it enters my body. The other two tubes are for expelling waste. I do not need to eat or drink. I do not and can not move. I am restricted via metal bands of steel, lined on the inside with soft cushion, around my entire body. There are three around each of my legs; one at the ankle, one at the knee and one at the thigh. There is one around my waist and one around my chest. There are three on each of my arms; one at the wrist, one at the elbow and one at the shoulder. There is one around my neck and one around my forehead. I am completely naked as clothing may restrict my breathing and thus could be a hazard to my safety.
I can look around but all I can see are three white walls, a white ceiling, a white floor and the tubes. The walls look smooth, though I have never touched them. Some days when I am feeling wistful I imagine being able to caress the walls. I wonder whether they are hot or cold. I would like to stroke my hand over them and feel for any bumps or imperfections. I would like to knock on the walls with my knuckles. I wonder whether they are hollow or solid. Brick, metal or cement? Would the sound be deep and resonant or thin and tinny? But I am not allowed to touch the walls. I am restricted by the steel bands around my body.
The room, assuming I am pressed against the fourth wall which I have never seen, runs approximately three by three by three metres in length, width and height. There is a single fluorescent light fixed into the middle of the ceiling in the shape of a square panel. The light is approximately sixty centimetres in length and width. It is not bright enough to blind, as on several occasions I have stared into it in the hopes of seeing the world again. But it is also not dim enough to cast any sort of shadow. It is calculated to be the exact brightness it is by people I have never met.
I am unable to ask for assistance or explanation. My vocal chords have been removed. My tongue has also been removed as this was a hazard to my safety. In the unlikely event of unconsciousness the tongue can be unintentionally swallowed. It is also possible, though more difficult, to do this consciously. Thus it had to be taken out. I do not miss my tongue or my vocal chords. I have no one to exchange words with. They are not needed. I imagine if I were able to speak I would only give myself a sore throat. Talking also consumes quite a few more calories than you would expect and so my diet would need to be adjusted accordingly. This is why it is easier to rid me of them.
I do not need to bathe as I do not sweat. Perhaps my glands have also been removed. I remember a time outside of this room when I could sweat. But now I can spend hours upon days flexing my muscles over and over again without mustering a drop. I can still smell and I smell of antibacterial chemicals. It is not a pleasant smell like a perfume or a flower but it is not unpleasant like the waste I excrete would be if it were not sealed inside the tubes. It is the smell of an empty hospital. The rest of the room has no odour, good or bad. I long to bathe again but the water and cleaning products would be a hazard to my safety.
Every twelve hours a small amount of clear liquid runs from the wall and into the tube that is inserted into my stomach. This involuntarily puts me to sleep for what I can only assume is twelve hours. I know this twelve on twelve hour cycle through calculation. Upon waking early on into my stay here I would count from the moment I awoke to the moment I was put to sleep again. I did this several dozen times to be sure and found it is always precisely done in twelve hour intervals. There are twenty-four hours in a day. This means I am equal parts unconscious and conscious. I do not dream. I remember a time outside of this room when I had vivid dreams with lots of colour and noise. Now it is an empty space. I prefer this because it does not disturb my mind in the event I experience a dream of a disturbing nature.
To pass the time I recount songs I have heard once inside of my head and flex my muscles in accordance with the rhythm and tempo. One of these songs I recount goes as follows: You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You are so happy. When skies turn grey. You’ll never know, dear. How much I love you. Until the grey skies go away. As time progresses I am able to recount fewer songs I have heard once. I try to recount at least one song per day to keep them from slipping into the mud.
I also try to recount memories but these are intentionally foggy. Faces I once may have been familiar with are now blurred. Places I once may have frequented meld together. I went to school as a young boy, though which school and where I could not say. I went to a university somewhere as a young man and earned a degree in something that is now beyond me. After which, because before would make less sense, I began to work. This work was mentally stimulating and took place at a desk. I can remember that the colour of the desk was black but I can not remember the type of work that took place upon it. I can remember my attendance at a wedding, though I can not remember whether it was my own. I can remember the sun setting but I can not remember it rising again.
My most vivid and recent memory is of a small bedroom. The light is off and it is beginning to get dark. I am standing on a chair in the centre of the room with a rope around my neck connected to the ceiling. I am staring out of the window at the trees. The wind is picking up. I am staring out of the window at the birds as they hold onto the branches and try to slumber. I am preparing to tip the chair over when the door behind me opens. I feel a sharp pain in my leg and look down to find a syringe has been inserted into my thigh. I feel myself falling unconscious. I wake up here, in the white room.