The walls were white. Unadorned, simple, aggravatingly white. I sat up, my red hair, blue eyes, and black clothing an immensely strange contrast to the walls. The floor was a white, soft carpet, I noticed, standing up. I was barefoot, my Vans nowhere to be seen. The ceiling had only built in lights, a glass layer protecting it. There was a lamp, but that was white too.

I bit my lip. Where was I?



There were no windows, I noticed, fingertips lightly dragging along the side of the hospital-like white bed. I turned a corner, seeing lines on the wall, about the height and width of a door. I silently glided closer to the box, touching it. It was merely a minuscule dip in the pure wall. I allowed my fingers to drop, backing up. No walls. No windows. I realized where I was.



“No…” I whispered, clenching fingers into my palm. I looked down at my hands, and I saw the white bandages around both of my wrists, a few thin strips of red on them. I bit my lip and my eyes widened. “What?” I mouthed in confusion. No... There’s no way… How could I have done this?


I opened my eyes, back to the red walls of my room. I looked at my phone; 3:41 a.m. I stood up and opened the curtains, looking down at the hectic streets of Phoenix, Arizona. The silence inside the apartment was killing me. I knew how loud it was down there. I walked to my bathroom, turning on the hot water in the stone, walk in shower. I evened out the hot and cold, slipped out of my clothes, and stepped into the shower, luxuriating in the hot water and steam.



I looked at my wrists, only old scars there. It wouldn’t happen again, I thought, before stepping out and putting different clothes on, lying down again. Soon I fell back to the blessed darkness, not another dream for the night.



I woke up the next morning. It was obnoxiously bright outside for November. I turned over and checked my phone, and then dragged myself up and out of bed. I walked to the bathroom, leaning against the counter and analyzing myself. I decided to forget about the dream from last night, putting on some jeans and a jacket over my tank top, fixing my hair and makeup and leaving for the day.


I stepped outside of my apartment complex, planning on just walking to my destination—the art studio. I weaved through the crowd quickly, for the studio was only a few blocks away.



I stepped through the door, taking comfort in the antique blue walls and white trimming, admiring the painting and sculptures around the rather large room. There was a piano in the back corner, pure black. It was beautiful. I didn’t know how to play well. Then I noticed someone was behind the piano. I tilted my head, taking in this new sight. The piano was usually just for show.



It was a guy, probably in his early twenties. He had dark blonde hair, barely above his eyes. Speaking of those, his were gorgeous. They were green and gray, rimmed with lashes a girl would envy. Clear complexion. I started walking to him, setting my jacket and bag near the painting I was working on at the moment.



“Hello…” I said, slowing down as I approached. He looked awfully familiar, I thought. I took comfort in the cool air from the vent above, touching the piano’s edge nonchalantly.


“Hi,” He smiled a little. “Your name?” He asked.


“Alyson. And you are…?” I leaned against the chair I was standing next to.


“Julian.” He replied, moving his eyes from mine to the keys on the piano. He lightly slid his fingertips across the keys, looking at them adoringly. “Do you play?” He questioned softly, not looking up.


“Nah, never really learned. Wish I could,” I replied casually, stepping to stand next to him.


“Mh…” His fingers stopped brushing the keys, and he started by playing a single note, and it turned into a piece I’ve never heard before. I looked down at his hands, and I couldn’t help but notice the marks on his wrists, burn marks from not long ago. I could tell.



While he was playing, I stepped back and started on a new canvas, painting aimlessly with colors that came to mind, the painting rather abstract, as if the artist started with something in mind, but lost herself in her work. I finished with the final brush stroke laid on the canvas, a dark purple mark on the outside of a strange flower.


He finished shortly after. “What song was that?” I immediately asked. I had fallen in love with it.


“I Giorni - Ludovico Einaudi,” he replied, stretching. “Did you like it?” He stood up and silently walked in my direction, eyeing the new painting. “That’s beautiful.” He said quietly.


“Thank you, Julian...” I looked down and closed my eyes.


My eyes opened again.


And I was where I started. The asylum. It was white. My eyes were looking at the ceiling. The walls were white. Unadorned, simple, aggravatingly white.