It was the first snowfall of the year.
White, cold, and pretty.
She could feel them, slowly and softly gliding down the wall outside of her room. She could hear the low tinkles of their distinct, cold branches, skittering against the leaves of old Mahogany. And she could empathize with them, falling from their homes unto the murky pavements of the streets.
Where they’ll be stepped on.
Where they’ll be shoved away.
Where they’ll be toyed with.
Where they’ll eventually perish.
Yet. They have their hopes clinging on to that “yet.” Such lucky, lucky creatures to have a definite future to look forward to. Even in their downfall, they are certain that they will be brought up to the black skies, back to their cold haven, and they’ll be waiting for yet another year before they could fall down into Earth in their white, pretty dresses.
And to think that they know of the pains they’ll fathom.
But, of course, how can they do anything about it? They’re only snowflakes, white, cold, pretty, and lifeless.
And they always return home after. To their black, dark, and cloudy home. Where they’ll see the splitting lightning, hear the deafening thunder, and clamp with bothersome rain.
Their home, the thick, black, skies.
And my home is this, the white, soft, padded room meant to bring me safety and comfort. The room where people in white visit to help me, even if they occasionally hurt me, saying that it was for my own good. The room that prevents me from hurting myself whenever I do, even if I don’t remember them. The room that is meant to bring me back to my old self, to cure me from my illness, even if I don’t feel sick. The room that was supposed to make me forget.
And I was brought here, after I had been on the paved ground, where I had been stepped on when I asked for alms; where I had been shoved away when I touched them; where I had been toyed with by bad people, very bad people…
And I would have eventually perished, if I hadn’t been brought here by Mister… I can’t remember…
Whoever he was, if he hadn’t brought me into this white room and have people tend to me, I would have perished long before.
There they are now, the doctors, and they’re bringing me somewhere, the same room where there are sharp instruments that they use to see my mind… And they hurt so much.
I don’t like it here!
Please, Allison, stay down!
We’re trying to help you!
Just forget, Allison, and you’ll be okay!
Aaaagh! Let me go!
And they all came flashing back.
It was the first snowfall of the year… a man and a woman sitting by a hearth, smiling her; the soft carpet where she lied on her belly and the book on her hand; the singing child sitting on the cushy sofa where she sang old tunes, accompanied by a handcrafted music box…
And then they screamed.
And everything she ever lived for were suddenly buried under a blanket of white.
Cold, pretty, and white.