Ivory’s day began not with a bang, but with a click. A single, satisfying click that announced the arrival of food, a marker, and a new day.
The click was the sound of the tray that arrived in the slot in the wall. Each morning Ivory rolled out of bed and raced over to the white panel in the wall, which opened at her touch. There sat her breakfast on a pristine white platter (egg whites, powdered donuts, and milk) and a thick, fat, beautiful black marker.
The marker. A new one arrived every single morning, always black. The first morning, the very first morning, Ivory only used the marker for one thing– to write her name.
The first morning was very bright and cold. Ivory opened her eyes and was blinded. She tried to figure out what was so blinding. It wasn’t the sun, for there was no window. It wasn’t a light bulb, for there were no lights and no doors.
It must have been the walls. It must have been the shining, reflecting, bright white walls. They were so white. Or maybe it was the bed. White sheets, white quilt, and white pillow–it was all white. Ivory (who, at that point, did not know her name was Ivory) jumped up and followed the sound of the click to the panel in the wall. She ate her first breakfast, opened her first marker, and wrote her first word.
It came to her as she uncapped the marker. A single word popped into her head– “Ivory”. She wrote it on the wall next to the panel in thick, loopy, beautiful handwriting. And then, Ivory sat in the white room, with the white walls and white bed. She sat on the floor for one day and one night, only getting up at the sound of the effortlessly compelling click.
But that was seven years ago. And Ivory is no longer in a white room. Every day she used her new marker to draw and write all over the white. The walls held swirls and shapes, the bed held letters and number, the floor held paragraphs upon paragraphs. Ivory’s own skin was covered is thick, swirling ink designs.
