The White Room
Dedication: To Jenn for the evil bunny. To Beth for the beta.
Colors. So many of them flashing in the dark. Blue, yellow, purple, green...
The red makes him cringe away. He doesn't know why, but red is bad. So bad. He flinches his eyes shut tighter against it until it flashes to white.
He can live with white.
The red is gone now, and he can breathe again. For now, he can breathe.
The red always comes back, though.
Black with pinpricks of color, flashing and fading like fireworks bursting on the Fourth of July.
That makes him smile.
It's mostly black behind his eyelids, but the color flares make the darkness live, make it breathe.
It's almost like seeing.
--- * ---
"How long are you going to let this go on before you *do* something?"
"As long as it takes."
---*---
Voices. Meaningless noise. They're saying things, but he can't understand most of the time.
That's okay. He likes the dark and the colors.
Voices he knows. One sounds angry. The other one is ... sad? Desperate? He has problems deciphering the softer voice, but he knows it.
There were voices before,earlier, that he didn't know. He could tell they were asking questions. He couldn't answer them. He didn't understand.
The only thing that made sense was the dark. The colors.
And the red that never stayed away long enough.
---*---
"Has he eaten anything?"
"I... made him some canned soup. It was the only thing he'd touch."
---*---
He doesn't like the times when he understands the voices. The noise is okay, but the words want to pull him out. They claw at his sheltering darkness.
"Open your eyes. Please *look* at me."
He whimpers. He wants the words to go away. He curls up in a tight ball and clasps his hands over his ears.
"It's going to be okay. Just let me know that you can hear me. Son... open your *eyes*."
Grinds his fists against his ears, pressing hard. Blood in his head sounding louder than a locomotive. He can't hear the words now.
It won't be long before they don't make sense again. Then he can cover his eyes with his hands instead of burying them against his knees.
It's safe, here in the dark.
---*---
"It's been *three days*."
"I don't care how long it's been. I won't-"
"Damn it! He needs *help*. You can't just-"
"You don't have the right to tell me how to deal with my own son."
"Someone has to."
---*---
There are times that he thinks about it. What it would be like to see again. He could, too. Simply had to lift his lids.
Yes, simple. And terrifying and confusing and absolutely *wrong*.
He doesn't know *why* it's wrong. Just knows it is. Plain fact from a place deeper and stronger than thought.
Instinct, maybe. He's not sure.
So he tries not to think.
It's easy. Just watch the colors flicker and float along, drifting through the sea of black.
He notices that he thinks of opening his eyes when the red flashes come.
Only in the red.
---*---
"I could kill you for this."
"Be my guest. As soon as the doctors take a look at him, I'll give you a free shot. But the doctors *will* see him."
"You don't understand... this is... this will only make things worse-"
"Worse? How can he get any worse? Call me reactionary, but I think catatonia is a strong sign that *something* needs to be done."
"But-"
"No! I waited too long as it is. I gave you five days, which was about four and a half days too long. For Christ's sake... You've already lost your wife. Do you want to lose your son, too?"
---*---
He feels something. Pressing on his lips. Warm. Smooth. Wet.
"I made you some more soup. You need to eat, son. Open your mouth."
Words again. He tries not to cringe. Can't help it, though. Wants the words *gone*. He wants to keep the soft voice. That's soothing. The words are demanding. Not calming and safe like the dark and the colors.
"*Please*. You have to eat something."
He opens his mouth. He can do that. Maybe the words will stop if he does. Maybe the words won't ask him to open his eyes if he complies.
He hears a breath blow out. It rustles across the skin of his face like the brush of a cat's tail. It bothers him. He doesn't like things, anything, to touch him.
He swallows and the spoon is back. He accepts it again. Thin, salty broth with soggy noodles. He knows somehow that he doesn't normally eat this. That's why it's okay. Unfamiliar is good. It doesn't try to take him out of the dark.
"It's... it's going to be okay, son. We'll make this right. I promise."
---*---
Someone stole his cocoon while he was sleeping.
Everything is bigger and brighter and *louder*.
He hates it.
Hates the noise of extra people in the room. He hears the unfamiliar voices and *knows* they weren't there before. His safety net is totally gone and he feels betrayed.
Hates the feeling of movement all around him. It's taunting him. There is tension and movement and he wants to know what is happening but no one is telling him anything and he's tempted to open his eyes. So tempted.
Hates the bright light pressing insistently on the twin barriers of his eyelids. The light being shone on his face has chased away the comforting black. It has lightened to red. Blood red.
He hates that most of all.
He senses someone settling down next to him. He knows the person, and it's a struggle to not lash out, but he doesn't want to give himself away. He's *thisclose* to clarity, and self preservation tells him that would be bad.
Very bad.
So he stays still. He hopes the people don't notice that he's trying to sense what is happening around him without the assistance of his sight.
"Son... can you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Yes, and yes. He doesn't want that. He wants the people gone. He wants the light and the words gone.
Another familiar presence on his other side, now.
"The doctors are going to help you. Everything's going to be okay. We won't let anyone hurt you. You believe that, right?"
And somehow, he does believe that voice. It's sincere. But they *don't* *know*. He needs to hold on to the oblivion. It's his salvation. He knows it is. Why won't they just let that be?
He can't take it anymore. They've stolen his darkness and his quiet and his colors, and he wants them back. He *needs* them back. "Go... away..."
The noise is suddenly gone. Quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Then the bustling starts up again and it's even louder and brighter and speaking was *such* a bad idea. His voice had sounded strange, and suddenly the words around him have become excited and fearful and questioning instead of going away.
"Oh my God... Son? Say something. Talk to me again, *please*"
"It appears that the regimen has made a partial break in the catatonia. Make a note on the chart to gradually increase doses of Risperidone and 1mg Lorazepam B.D."
He can't take it. He jumps up and runs on instinct. Eyes closed and tripping over furniture. Running into people and things and pushing away from the helpful hands. Finally finding the door and just getting *out*.
Out of the room. Out of the house, and he can breathe again.
Hears the door open and close behind him. Wants to run again but can't. He doesn't remember enough to know where he is or what direction to go.
Quiet voices on the porch behind him. He can't make out the words, and at least *that* is familiar.
Only one of them approaches, and he knows from the sound of the gait that it's not his father. A gentle hand on his shoulder, touching lightly like he's a spooked horse, and he knows that's not an entirely false impression. This time, he doesn't shrug the hand away, and it rubs, slow and calming.
He wonders how long it's been since he's been able to stand a touch.
"Are you okay?"
"No."
"It's all right. We just got a little excited in there. It's been a while since you've said anything."
"I know."
"The doctors gave you something to help with-"
"In the soup. I get it."
"We're... we're all here to help. You're going to get past this."
He doesn't answer that. Doesn't know how to. Doesn't know what the "this" is that he's supposed to "get past". Doesn't want to know.
The hand drops and there are movement sounds. He's being circled, and the voice comes from in front of him this time. "The world won't end if you open your eyes."
"I... can't. Please don't ask me to."
There's a sigh. Accepting and more than a little sad. "Maybe they'll have better luck convincing you."
He knows who "they" are, and he tenses again. The hand comes back, grabs his this time. "Hey... it's all right. I... I'm going to go. Now that you're in capable hands, I can-"
"No!" Feels the hand pulling away, hears it in the voice. Can't do this alone. Just *can't*. "Please... don't leave. I need you to stay."
The hand squeezes his. It's comforting. It helps. The fear doesn't seem as big right now. He can even take the red, so long as he doesn't have to face it alone.
"Okay. I'll stay. Whatever you need, Clark."
---*---
"Okay, Clark. We won't ask you to open your eyes again. Tell me, what's the last thing you remember?"
"Black. With flashes of color. They're like fireworks."
"Before that. What's the last thing you remember from before?"
"I was... in the kitchen. With Mom. She was baking."
"Okay. Good. What happened next?"
"..."
"Clark? Remember what I said? This is something that happened to someone else. Think of it like a movie. Visualize a screen and tell me what's happening there."
"She's... walking toward me. She looks worried. She's asking me if I'm okay, because..."
"Because? It's fine, Clark. You're doing fine."
"She says my eyes look... red. I don't like red."
"We know, Clark. But this isn't you. What is happening on the screen?"
"She touches my forehead... and she's looking up at me... and I'm looking down... and then all I see is red. It's so *bright* and I hear her scream and I can't see and she's not screaming anymore and I hear her hit the floor... and God! Oh God!"
"Clark! Clark, listen. You have to calm-"
"I close my eyes because I think the red is coming from *me*. And I've hurt her and I don't know what's happening. I kneel down and try to find her with my eyes closed and I feel her leg.
"Clark, stop. That's enough. You need to-"
"I turn my head up toward the ceiling and open my eyes and the red is gone so I look down... and ... and God... oh God... more red... it's on her face and in her hair and dripping and I shake her and she's not moving... not moving.... just red....
"Clark! Give me the syringe and keep those two out of here! I don't give a damn if he has a shot gun, they can't see this! Luthor will kill us anyway if-"
Red... so much red...
Clark hates red.
---*---
His room is white.
He likes white.
He hates red. He doesn't know why, but he does.
The doctors wear white. They tell him things he doesn't remember and ask him things he doesn't understand.
He sometimes thinks he *should* understand, but this is easier. Trying to understand hurts too much.
Some of the white tiles in his room have black spots on them. He doesn't know how they got there, but he likes them. They make things interesting.
There are lots of black spots on the tile above his bed. Sometimes he thinks he sees a shape in there. He tries to connect the dots in his head, but it never works right. The shape disappears before he can trace it. It's a little frustrating, but it kills time.
On Sundays, his father visits. He knows this because he's told each time that it is Sunday and his father is here to see him.
He's a nice man. Clark likes him. He's big and always hugs Clark when he comes to visit.
He tells stories, too. Clark never remembers the specific words for long, but there's a woman in them. Clark wonders about her sometimes. He has vague impressions of soft hands and comfort and the smell of cookies baking.
She must have been what people call a mother. He's not sure, though. And he doesn't ask. He thinks it would upset his father that he doesn't remember.
On Saturdays, his friend visits. He knows this because he's told each time that it is Saturday and his friend Lex is here to see him.
Clark likes Lex. He's nice and he's funny. He's smaller than Clark's father, but he seems so smart. And he never wears red. He usually wears black.
Clark likes black.
Lex seems sad sometimes, though. Like he's waiting for Clark to remember something.
Sometimes *Clark* wants to remember, to stop Lex from being sad. But he's scared to remember. And he doesn't know why it scares him, but he usually ends up wanting Lex to go on those days.
He never sends him away. That would be mean. But he doesn't like feeling bad for not remembering.
It's easier to watch the Dalmatian puppies play on his ceiling tile. They aren't afraid of remembering, and Clark thinks he might learn how to not be afraid if he watches them long enough.
Black and white. And no traces of red.
--- The End ---