The White Room
By David Brennan
The White Room is a fictional series being written by Vermilion’s Fiction Editor, David Brennan, that will be released in installments throughout the semester. The series will principally focus on themes of what it means to write creative fiction, the effect and experience of an active imagination, and the repression of creativity and imagination.
The rafters above him beat with the drumming of thousands of roaring fans. The cheers of the crowd thundered louder as the battle reached its climax. Soon it would be his time. Soon he would either be made a god or a corpse for maggots. The gate before him opened wide to reveal the fabled arena. The stands were filled with hungry eyes thirsting for blood, for entertainment, for distraction. They surrounded the sands upon which the stories of legends were written with steel pens.
Wilson sat patiently in his chair. His eyes were fixed upon the doorframe as he awaited Dr. White’s arrival. The room was quiet, so quiet that Wilson didn’t dare to make a sound and disturb the silence of the moment. His eyes left the door for a moment to examine his surroundings once again. They were white, as always, though Wilson still couldn't help but survey them regularly to ensure the void around him remained empty. Part of Wilson had hoped something would be different.
“Wilson, are you listening?” Dr. White asked while looking down at his clipboard.
“Huh...yeah, yeah I’m listening,” Wilson responded with a distant voice.
“Where were you just now, Wilson?”
“I was just thinking about something.”
“What are you looking at?” Dr. White inquired.
Wilson stared off distantly.
“Wilson? Wilson? Wilson!” Dr. White’s typically calm tone was broken by a burst of frustration. The change in pitch drew Wilson’s attention, and he turned his head to face Dr. White.
The Beast lay in the distance, colored and coiled, forming a mass of vibrant flesh out in the void of white beyond. Wilson stared. Admired every inch. Every scale and claw and tooth and wing and tail. All of it was a feast for Wilson's eyes. He wanted to go to it. Walk to it. Talk to it. Yet, he was trapped behind an invisible wall.