White Walls

White room. Padded walls. No windows.

A young male sat huddled in the corner, blue eyes dull. Everything was white; besides his natural colors, sandy brown hair and pale skin white as the walls that surrounded him. As of routine, he counted the padded squares one-by-one.

One—two—three—

The door opened.

He had almost forgotten there was an outside beyond these white walls.

A woman entered; golden haired with red lips. He stared, expression blank, as she crossed the room to the chair provided some time ago. He had wondered what it was for.

He blinked as she sat in the provided seat, his expression blank as she sat the recorder in her hand on the small table next to her.

“Do you know why I’m here, Skylar?” When he didn’t reply, she continued, “I’m here for the truth.”

Skylar sat up. “Their truth or mine?”

Jennet. Her name was Jennet, at least he thought it was Jennet…maybe her name was Jane. Whatever her name was, he cared not. Though the smiling red lips were starting to make him twitch. White room. Padded walls. Now with a splash of unholy red.

“Remove your lips.” he growled.

She tilted her head, her forbidden golden locks swinging uncontrollably, “Pardon?”

“That color.”

“Skylar I believe we are getting off subject.”

He held her gaze as she asked, “Do you remember what happened that night?”

He stiffened. Pupils dilated. A grin crossed his lips. “I killed him…. I killed that bastard, that demon….”

“Demon?”

Skylar inhaled. “He stunk; musty smell with an undertone of alcohol. He’d arrived at night, his dick pulsing for my mother’s body. He was out for blood. My blood. He always said between my mother and I, I was his least favorite. Night after night he came in, ate our food, bedded mother, and took out his aggravation…”

He quaked, and slid to the floor. Images flashed across his mind. Like thousands of crimson butterflies fluttering in his frontal lobe.

His mother, screaming, as she was knocked to the ground. Blood on the floor. A glint of steel, a broken knife.

Skylar trembled, gaze distant, as he whispered, “He attacked me. With a broken knife. Slammed me into the walls, into the floor.”

He couldn’t get away. Pain darted under his skin, phantom jabs of discomfort. It had hurt so much. He shook his head, voice low as he said, “Hands bled. Demon tried to strike me. I defended myself…”

The doctor eyed him with a little frown marring those scarlet lips, “What happened?”
Skylar’s breath quickened. His body trembled.

He could feel the demon upon him; he was heavy, strong. He had screamed. Kicked. Slashed at the demon. There was blood. So much blood. He struggled until a well-placed kick collided with its demonic loins.

“Kitchen. I ran to the kitchen…”

He needed a knife. The demon was behind him. Its musty breath threatened to cut of his oxygen. The knives were too far away. Meat cleaver…

“Cleaver…the cleaver was in the sink. It was…salvation.”

The blade parted flesh easily. He recalled how it sank through the skin and into the muscle, deeper and deeper. Warm blood coating his hands. A woman screamed. The demon dropped to the ground. It didn’t move.

It was…it was dead.

He felt mirth, and raw exhilaration, fill him as soft, airy giggles. Then he turned to mother.

“Victory was short-lived. The demon was dead, but mother was an angel fallen. Never to awaken.”

Such beauty wasted on swine. She needed a proper burial; a burial fit for a queen.

“I burned her with the demon.” Skylar nuzzled the padded wall, the warmth of the flames a ghost of memory dusting his skin. He felt the doctor’s gaze on him, sensed her disturbance. His gaze shifted towards her as she stood, and her words echoed even after she spoke.

“Your mother wasn’t dead. Your father,” she paused and rephrased her response, “…the demon wasn’t the one who killed her.”

He curled his hands. Soft flesh. Blood. The cold metal of a knife’s hilt biting into his palm.

A deep chuckle rumbled from him as he caught the doctor’s eye, tone light as he said, “That makes me the demon, doesn’t it?”

 

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