WRITING
	Shades of White
	Jason sidled down the footpath, kicking a football ahead of him. Short kicks so it wouldn't bounce off onto the road. He had nowhere to be. His parents would be at work for the next hour or so. (Kick, bounce. Kick.) So he just walked around the block, and around again, past the same houses and the same picket fences, alone with his thoughts and the ball. Cars drove past in shining cold metal, unheeding of his presence.      The ball veered right into a fence. The neighbour's cat fled in a flurry of fur to its master's house. Cats always seemed happy. What did they have to worry about? They had owners who fed them and cared for them, owners who would pet them, and hold them in their laps. Unlike parents. Always too busy with work, with tax reports, client phone-calls, offshore deals. They found time for each other. But not for him.      He sighed and fetched the ball from the fence-line. Someday he'd be a pro-football star. Someday he'd be the best player on the field, and everyone would like him. Someday, when he was important, his family would care about him.      If only he could do better.
	Look around, see only white. The white of walls. The white of tile. See the absence of colour. A door in the far wall with no window. The room is empty, a void full of light.       Stare at the roof with white glazed eyes.
	'Leave me alone!' Carl ran. Down the hall, round the corner, past the grade-five classrooms and into the boys' toilets. Locked the door. They were teasing him again. They never left him alone. Every day they'd come; spit comments, push him around. Everyone saw, but no-one helped. They laughed too.       He dragged off his backpack and dumped it on the tile, sat down on the toilet lid. He stared at the door with its silver lock. A small thing. But it locked them out, made this space his and his alone. Always alone.       He slowly unzipped the bag and reached in, withdrew a foil-wrapped length. Split the weak join and stuffed the chocolate in his mouth.       She'd almost found it today, when she packed his lunch. She thinks he doesn't know, thinks he can't tell when her eyes search his bag as she slips the lunchbox in. He has to be more clever in where he hides them now. Inside his pencil-case. In a muesli-bar wrapper. In yesterday's gym sock.       The cubicle door is too short. He can see under it to the tiles beneath the sinks, where shadows are moving. Blood freezes. A head appears over the wall from the next cubicle.       'Hey piggy, come to cry?' Pure sarcasm and hate.       He can't move. Why did they build the walls so short?       More heads appear all around. Laughing at him, making jokes about his chocolate.       Why can't they understand? Fruit is poor therapy.
	White room, white doors, white coats. Black badges. Black eyes. Black discs stuck on skin. Somewhere, a monitor beeps. Loud tick, tick, tick of a clock counting seconds.
	Screams from the kitchen filter through a closed door; yelling from Dad, shouting from Mum. A shattering sound as china breaks. The sound lingers. Smash…       Tinga hides under her bed, her fingers tracing the patterns of texta on the wooden slats. Her eyes see smiles, flowers and rainbows. Her fingers feel lies on faces, broken roots and stormy weather. Her mind remembers years of hiding.       A sharp scream and a moment's silence. Thump-thump-thump of her heartbeat. Then screams even louder than before. 'Don't you ever hit me!'       'I'll do whatever I bloody-well like!'       Tinga squeezes shut her eyes and covers her ears, but nothing stops the noise. More smashing, breaking, tearing. Wood splinters. A door slams.       Her door opens.       'Where are you, you little shit!' This time not muffled. Her breath stops. She is quiet, still.       Moments later, the bed lifts.
	Movement in white, lab-coats and uniforms. Hands and faces stab at limbs.       'Strap her down! I don't wont those hands taking out an eye.'       Leather buckles strangle wrists. Flash of steel, a needle spitting venom into veins. Resist!
	Marcie plays the violin. She's always been the best in her age group. She practices every spare second she gets.       With the door locked, papers spread across the desk, she strokes the strings. To any other ear, the music is serene. Slow vibrations of a thrumming tune.       She stares out the window of the second story flat. Before her is the world, but she does not see it. She sees only the notes from the music sheets. (Hold for four beats.)       Softly down, quickly up, quaver the finger - no! Too flat. Not perfect. He won't accept anything less than perfect.       She looked to the music papers and played it again, played it again, played it again. Good, perfect. Next bar. Play it, and play it again. Play it till it's perfect.       If she could play the whole piece perfect, maybe he wouldn't…       She thought of his hands on hers, guiding hers. No! Too sharp!
	'Jason?'       The light is blinding - everything is so vividly white. My vision is blurry, and white clouds the patches of pink hovering over me. It's a face, I think.       'Carl? Is it Carl?'       Who's Carl? Are they talking to me?       'I-I'm Marcie,' I stammer.       The face turns and says something to someone over right. I try to look, but I can't turn my head. Something is pinning me down. I try to touch my head and find out what's holding me, but my hands are pinned as well. I test my feet, but I'm trapped! My breathing races as I start to panic. 'Calm down, I'm a doctor.'       I thrash about, trying to break the bonds. Hands push me back onto the bed, more hands than one person can own. I don't understand! I'm not hurt, so why am I in hospital?       'Marcie, we—'       'My name is Tinga. What have you done to me?'       He barks an order I don't understand and seconds later a needle jabs into my arm.       My muscles relax without my wanting. My limbs go limp though I am still struggling to move. My eyelids half close. For an instant, my vision clears and I see the walls are not flat. Diamond patterned pads abound. In the roof, a single globe glows. My vision fades. My mind gives in to poison's sleep.

Last Updated 24.11.04