BLACK AND WHITE
The small, white object floated past as I sat daydreaming in my chair. Actually, it didn’t float, like a feather, or drift and whirl, as a dust ball would when caught in the swirly rhythm of the air conditioning blast, but rather it zoomed past, straight and true, as if it had a purpose.
Suddenly alert, I sat up and looked around, searching the surrounding grey-painted floor and small table, to no avail. No white object, no feather. A minimal amount of dust covering the table in a thin layer, but no flying object.
“It’s him,” I thought. “Come to haunt me. Come to let me know my dastardly deed won’t go unchecked.” I wondered why the object, the manifestation perhaps, was white though. White is pure, and good, and beautiful. It should be black, as evil as I’m told the deed itself was, as evil as he was, or red like the eyes of the devil. Yes, red, as red as the liquid that oozed out of him where the knife went in, the grey, steel-blade knife with the black handle. With some pleasure I do recall that part, as if it were an endless loop of a tape playing over and over. It felt good. It was a relief, like a payback for all those years of … well, the other thing my doctor says I shouldn’t think about. I can’t really remember much else. I sit here every day and try until my brain hurts, but all I ever see are those white things flying past my head, or some colorless fractal exploding behind my eyes. Or that loop.
I got up and walked to the window, seeking a clue to identify or explain something. Anything. As usual nothing, only the mid-line of trees, some frost-covered branches brushing against the building just below the blood red rain blurring the barred window. I see too, that other building across the yard, old and grey, with layers of peeling paint and black windows like huge eyes empty and staring and pleading for something. And the sign in the wide, circular driveway, State Prison, Psychiatric Unit. Black against white.