The White Room and the Red Circle

Mollie Steel

The girl woke that morning as she always did, with the light filtering through her window.

She had just left a dream of courageous knights and fire-breathing dragons. With bleary, swollen eyes, she stared up at the white ceiling and replayed the images of flames over and over in her head until she felt giddy. Never had she seen a red so vibrant, so vivid.

Truthfully, in her world, there was never much colour.

The walls of her world were painted white.

The girl bathed in the tingling warmth that filled her body for a few moments longer, and when she was finally ready to leave the marvels of her dream, she sat up. Stretching her arms and flexing her fingers, she tapped six times on her chest – three with her right hand, and three with her left. Balanced. It was all right to stand now. She picked up the clothes The Voices had left at the foot of her bed whilst she slept: a white dress, white socks, and white underwear.

Her world was unremarkable, nothing like the places in her books or dreams. It was a table and a stool, and a bed beside a thick, frosted window. It was her bath, her books, the projector, and The Voices.

The girl smiled and tapped her left middle finger and thumb together three times.

She liked The Voices.

She never saw them but liked to imagine they were as elegant as the elves she read about, or as strong as the dragon-slayers. They watched to make sure she was okay, that she liked her food and her books. Sometimes they spoke to her through the silver sphere in the corner of the ceiling. She liked it when they did that.

The girl liked all The Voices, though some more than others; some spoke curtly, and some made her laugh. Sometimes they made loud noises and said things she didn’t understand.

The girl sighed contentedly as she thought of Sleep-Treat. This was the name she had given The Voice which spoke to her before her nightly gummy was slipped through the metal serving hatch. The girl hated the taste of the gummy, but Sleep-Treat made it easier.

Maybe Sleep-Treat was a witch; the girl had read of witches before. There were good and bad ones, but they could all brew potions and elixirs. The girl was sure Sleep-Treat was a good witch.

Following her usual routine, the girl straightened her blanket and smoothed it down three times. She didn’t quite get all the creases out and though seeing them made her fingers twitch, to touch it a fourth time just wouldn’t feel right. To distract herself, she stepped towards the window and strained to see the other world. It looked small and blurry, but the girl knew otherwise. The Voices had shown her videos and images of the other world: the endless deserts with scorched sands; the towering mountains topped with ice and snow, and the deep oceans filled with hidden creatures. It made the girl’s head spin. She didn’t know how it could all fit.

Throughout the day, the window’s shadow became a sundial. Depending on where it was in the room, it indicated when to expect the next Day Tray, when to sleep, and when to watch the projector.

She glanced at the floor. The shadow was approaching its first place, just in front of the metal serving hatch, which meant it was almost time for the first meal of the day.

The girl looked back at the window, entranced. It was rare, but sometimes large shapes drifted by the glass, and her world turned dark. The girl didn’t like seeing them; it made her heart race. The Voices had warned her that these shapes were the beasts of the other world, and she was in here to be protected from them.

Three bangs drew her attention away from the window and she spun around to see the yellow Day Tray being slid through the small metal hatch in the wall behind her. Yellow meant today was a Fourth Day. The girl knew that of course. In the beginning, the cycle of alternating coloured trays helped her keep track if she happened to forget what day it was. Blue, red, green, yellow. Yesterday was green, tomorrow would be blue. It was as natural as breathing.

The only time the order changed, was once every ninetieth cycle when the girl would be given a white tray with a huge slice of sweet rainbow cake. She always looked forward to this and kept a tally on the wall behind her desk that counted down to the next white tray; in four cycles, she would be expecting her fifteenth white tray, though she’d probably had many before which she just couldn’t recall.

The girl smiled and rushed towards the wall, grabbing the tray before it fell onto the floor. She sneaked a glance at the raised circle by the hatch.

‘Do not look at that,’ came one of The Voices from the silver sphere, and the girl quickly looked away, flustered. Do not look. Do not look.

The Voices did not like her acknowledging the circle. Once the girl had been so intrigued by it, she’d waited until the light disappeared then approached the circle with outstretched hands. When her fingers had brushed against it, The Voices had screamed and made loud noises that made the girl fall to the ground. She’d clutched her ears and curled up in a ball. After that, The Voices reminded her every day that she was not to touch the circle. She was not to look at the circle. She was not to think of the circle.

But today, the girl could not ignore the fact that the circle had been glowing red.

Swallowing back the sudden anxiety, she banged her fist against the wall in thanks and took the food to her desk. Sitting, she took the piece of black chalk from the pencil pot and drew a new line onto her white tray tally. She rubbed her hands together to wipe off the dust, then pointed at the first section of her tray. She didn’t recognise any of her food.

‘Mash poh-tay-toe,’ came one of The Voices from the silver sphere. On the wall beside her tally, the projector lit up. ‘Mash Potato,’ it read.

The girl repeated The Voice’s pronunciation a few times before she was satisfied. They had given her different kinds of potatoes before, and as she prodded at it with her fork, it occurred to her that it looked just liked the insides of a jacket potato, or a regular potato just smushed –mashed. The girl smiled. That made sense.

She scooped up a large piece of the mash potato and took a bite before pointing at the second section.

The process continued, with the girl being introduced to the other new foods – broccoli (bad), sausage slices (good) – along with a small carton of strawberry milk (very good).

While waiting for the shadow to make its way to the second place of the day, the girl sat cross-legged on her bed and occupied herself with her books. The first one she picked up was about the adventures of the Flower Fairies. The girl loved flowers and had begged The Voices to let her have a real one, but they had refused. The thought of never being able to touch one made her heart ache.

Closing the book, she slid it under her bed, and chose another. This one was about pirates who hunted mermaids and sirens. The opening of the story explained how they had carved a large wooden lady into the bow of their ship with spikes coming out of her head.

The books made her question what she was: her ears were not pointed, and wings did not sprout from her back, scales did not cover her body, and horns did not emerge from her skull. She knew she was a girl, because that’s what The Voices called her, and because she had long hair and wore dresses. The girl also knew she was not a child, because according to the books, children were stupid, could not speak properly, and cried at everything. The girl, on the other hand, could speak very well, and from what she could remember, had never shed a tear. But the girl was sure she was not a woman, or a man. Her books said that women were desirable, with thin stomachs and curves on their chests and waists; the girl was thin, but she had no curves. On the other hand, she knew men had hair on their faces and strong, muscular arms. This was not the girl either.

All she knew was that her hair was brown, and her skin was peach, though if she looked at her hands and wrists closely enough, she could see lines of green, purple and blue beneath the surface. She had tried to cut them out one day with the knife and fork on her tray, just to get a better look at the colours, but The Voices had yelled and screamed and banged their fists against her wall. They’d stopped giving her metal after that, and the girl never tried it again.

The girl placed her book down and lay back in bed, pressing her fingertips into the hard parts of her face. She ran them across her dry lips and her blunt teeth, across her eyelashes, and along the angles of her jaw to try to piece together a picture of what she looked like. She thought a lot about her eyes. Were they green like a selkie’s or brown like a satyr’s?

With a sudden curiosity, she raised her hand, and pressed her fingertip into her eye. Touching burned, and the girl flinched, but she persisted, this time pressing softly. Her eyes were wet and squishy, but no matter how much she rubbed, no colour came away like the girl had hoped.

Her books described eyes in so many ways: empty, and beady, doeeyed, and bright. Did hers twinkle or sparkle? Did they flash or darken? Then there were her lips; if she puckered them and pouted far enough, she could catch a glimpse of their light pink colour. Sometimes, if she bit down into the skin, they would ache, and a bright red would ooze out and drip down her chin. The books called this blood. Blood was bad. Blood had come when she’d pressed the fork into her wrist. Blood made The Voices angry.

Three bangs came from the wall, and the girl looked down at the shadow on the floor. It was in second place. It was time to watch the projector. She took a seat at her desk and rested her chin on her hands and waited.

The girl knew something was wrong when the projector did not turn on. She looked back at the shadow slowly moving past second place, then again at the blank wall.

‘Hello?’ she said to the silver sphere. ‘The projector isn’t working.’

When there was no reply, the girl stood, keeping her eyes glued to where the projections always appeared. She banged on the wall above the metal hatch three times and waited.

Nothing.

She tried again with the other hand.

Nothing.

The girl chewed her lip. It was okay, The Voices would fix it. While returning to her seat, the girl caught a glimpse of the red circle once again. She looked away, heart racing, but paused as she realised The Voices had not yelled nor had they banged on the wall. Still, the girl had no intention of going near it, but she couldn’t stop herself glancing at its red glow.

The Voices did not acknowledge her.