Pat

The walls are cheesy-white. Devoid of any warmth. Sterile, hostile, bleak. The endless hum and flicker of fluorescent lights are the backing track for the desperate cries emanating from the grey padded cells, for the muffled, futile pounding of fists on cushioned doors.

The long, gloomy halls are filled with the smell of detergent and despair. White sneakers squeak on the polished floor, as orderlies and nurses travel between patients rooms, stripping beds, handing out pills and counting the hours until they can leave.

There's no such hope for the inmates - theirs is a life sentence.

In the large common room, patients sit in wheelchairs and plastic seats, staring into space, numbed by the pills and the crushing monotony of the place. Some hum tunelessly or mutter to companions only they can see.

The doctor is coming now, starched white coat and clip-board, all impersonal efficiency. Pat looks up at the sound of heels clicking on the waxed floor - a flicker of recognition in her hazel eyes.

She's been here since she was eighteen, because mother couldn't stand to look at her anymore. With her limp and neck twitch. With her endless questions and beseeching expressions. It was too much for mother to bear.

She used to visit once a week, after church, sitting with her youngest daughter for a full twenty minutes - forcing conversation. Her penitence for leaving Pat in this place - this asylum.

Pat could feel her brain turning to cheese, could feel herself slipping away. Her body had long since thickened from the heavy food and medication she was given and her mind wasn't far behind. She felt sluggish and dull as if the foam they lined the walls of the rooms with, was slowly growing around her mind.

There was no sharpness any more, no delight or anger. No real colour to the world. Everything was grey or cheese, melting slowly at the edges.

'Pat!'

The doctor stands before her - one shapely eyebrow raised as she glances down at the dilapidated woman in the chair.

'It's time for your session Pat. Please follow me.'

The doctor turns on her heel, her shoes clicking on the floor. Pat heaves herself to her unsteady feet, and trails after the doctor - eager for the session. The doctor will ask her questions. Which means she does still exist and hasn't completely faded into those cheese-coloured walls.

The doctor's office is a riot of colour compared to the rest of the asylum. There's green plants in the corners, a red couch for patients to lie on, an assortment of colourful stationary on the desk. Even the carpet is cheerful, with it's geometric pattern and various shades of sepia.

Pat sinks onto the couch, swinging her swollen ankles up so that she can lie back comfortably and turns to face the doctor expectantly.

'How have you been feeling this week Pat?'

It's always the same six questions, with little variation in the answers. The answers don't really matter. There's no escaping this place, no matter what you say. Pat's tried everything. Appearing sane. Appearing insane, Begging to leave, begging to stay. Nothing makes any difference in here. The moment her mother signed her in, her voice was silenced.

The doctor takes notes and then politely indicates when the time is up - each patient gets just a quarter of an hour.

Then it's back to the common room, with it's breathing corpses and cheese-coloured walls, it's flickering fluorescent lights and resignation.