13
The room was cold and sterile—no curtains on the windows, only dull, grey blinds. The walls were another dirty shade of grey. Everything was grey. I sat in a wheelchair, in front of a window with a view of a garden. The garden had long ago been left to die. Just as I had been left to wither away in the chair. Hours passed like lifetimes. Time didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered. I was dead to the outside world.
The sounds of the other inmates were distant and muted. Michael had been here, briefly, the day they locked me away. I wasn’t even sure when that was. I hadn’t seen him since. Everything else was a blur. I didn’t know where I was. I could have been in prison for all I knew. It felt like it. All I knew was the wheelchair and the window they put me in front of every morning.
