Hospital Bed

   Last night he dreamt of the hospital again. 

   The dreary white walls and the equally as drab popcorn ceiling, the bumpy texture the only thing distinguishing it from its smooth, monochromatic twins that made up the floor and walls. He may as well just be sitting in a box, or a white void somewhere. At least it would be quieter. He'd love to just reach up behind him and unhook the cables, hoisting the tubes out of their homes, choking the machines into blissful silence for once. Somehow, it was incredibly unstimulating yet far too overwhelming all at once; like the sheer blandness of it all had become an oppressive force of its own, paradoxically managing to be so devoid of anything that it became something itself. If he had any idea how to lift his arms, he'd destroy the sterile backdrop immediately, anything to make it just a little more interesting. 

   But since he couldn't, he had to settle for the only things he could currently move - his fingers, which he laced together and unwound repeatedly, rubbing knuckles together and contorting them into shapes. Eventually it would pass like it always did; he never knew why he dreamt of the hospital, but it had become a semi-regular occurrence in his life. Sometimes things would happen - a nurse visiting him but speaking an inhuman language, doctors poking at his face and brain and muttering nonsense to themselves as they wrote in their charts, tubes in his nose and throat snaking their way through him. But most of the time, it was like this - a pure, uninterrupted sterile void, punctuated by the beeps and cries of the machines he could hear but never see. Frankly, he'd begun to find himself preferring the discomfort of facing the uncanny faceless staff over the sheer emptiness of the room. But seeing as there was nothing he could do for now, he continued to play with his hands as he waited to wake up.

   If he were a more introspective man, he might've taken the time to dive into his psyche, digging through neuron trenches and memories to dig up whatever was causing the repetitive dreams - but he had no desire to think about himself that much. So he turned off his brain and kept waiting.