She types, the sound echoing off of the practically empty room, the sound being absorbed by the white. White walls, white floor tiles, white bed, white desk, white typewriter. Like being encased in a pearl. Beautiful, dizzying, mesmerizing. Maddening.

She has been at the same task for hours, writing everything that comes to her head, but nothing can ease the discordance of her mind. In a fit of rage, she claws at the walls with her sharpened nails. Counting 1. 2. 3. 4. 5… She rises, feet barely on the ground, practically floating, recovered from her bout of hysteria. She looks to the door, the door she has watched for years. The door that never opens. Her hand reaches out toward it, lacking her normal hesitation. What would happen if it just… opened? The world, the wonder, the glory. The freedom. The temptation could make her go mad. Staring at the door that never opens. Except there it is, the outside. The outside she only dreams about. A perfect meadow, a soft bed of grass, the heat of a sunset. She lies down there with the animals of the wild, with the little fox she loved as a child. Laughing and crying while she types. Her life is the stuff of dreams.