White

Atrophied muscles, knotted tendons, frail bones.

I dragged my decrepit body across the white floor, towards the small slot in the wall that contained my sustenance. Famished, I creaked and crackled under the great stress of simply moving. My dried, sunken eyes jumped from wall to white wall. Not a single shadow, not a solitary corner of darkness was to be found in the room. The brightness was so overwhelmingly bright I could not see how large my prison actually was.

How long had I been here? Months? Years?

I quickly consumed the gray slop, scooping it ineffectively with my thin fingers. It looked more like soggy paper mulch than food, and tasted as good. Even the food lacked color, but it was either this or starvation. After I finished it, I turned to the lifeless white walls and began to lick the only form of moisture from them.

In my boredom, I played games with myself. I made guesses at what my name was before my imprisonment. George? No. John? No, I never liked that name. Maybe a Mike? I liked that.

Ironically, I used to be terrified of the dark when I was a small child, afraid of the monsters it hid. I took solace in my nightlight that defended me in the night from horrible creatures and ghouls.

Now, the monsters had nowhere to hide.