Welcome to the White Room

The room is as sterile as a man that has worked at a nuclear power plant all of his life.  The nurse and the woman who brought me orange juice, in a Styrofoam cup (dangerous objects such as plastic are forbidden), have both left me to examine my new habitat.  Everything's white.  The windows won't open (wouldn't want me to jump), there isn't a telephone, there are no pictures on the wall, no TV, nothing to read . . . just an eerie white which is illuminated by two diagonally placed fluorescent lights.  Did the person designing this place have a few too many before coming up with the lighting scheme, or is this just another way to make the nuts feel right at home? 

At least my clothes are back on.  My leather jacket, along with my shoes, had to be locked away, due to too many sharp objects, or laces to hang myself with, so I am only wearing socks, jeans and the T-shirt I woke up in when the cops ripped me from my slumber hours earlier.  I notice that there is a tiny bed directly below one of the diagonal fluorescents, and decide to lie down and piece this all together.  I look at myself looking at myself in the reflection of the light humming above me, and begin picking at the assorted pieces that somehow come together to make up the shape of the last 24 hours of my life.  

I'm pretty sure that yesterday I was still a sane, and free, man.  I know that this morning I was in a tiny bed, in my own home, and I was sleeping soundly.  At the time, I didn't have bruises all over my body, courtesy of the local police department, and I never even knew how tight handcuffs could get.  I'm pretty sure I was never taken into custody before, and I had no idea what a "72-hour hold" was, and how lucky I was not to have known it.  I'm damn positive I had never committed a crime (unless you count vandalizing a golf course after its elitist owners refused to implement any safety measures to prevent stray golf balls from hitting people on the road next to it in the head, even after a friend of mine was knocked unconscious by one of them, as a crime, rather than justice).  Until this morning, I had absolutely no clue that I was even suicidal! Isn't it amazing how much one person can not know about himself, until he has the right group of people educating him?  

I get lost in a fluorescent tunnel of scrambled puzzle pieces, and begin traces the snippets of life that lead to this morning all the way back to the beginning, back to 1994, 9 million dollars, the movie Pulp Fiction and a phone-call that, 7 years later, would change my life forever . . . 

Head to chapter two!

2001 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved].  Copy this, without my permission, and you'll find out just why white rooms are to fancy diners as stinky shit is to pretty flowers!

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