My room is quiet, except for the soft sound of breathing. A sound that should be unnoticeable, but sticks out unbearably in this cage. Oak furniture fills the room, standing on a platform of lush carpet. As if this place was some high end hotel.

My room is quiet, except for the ticking of the made-to-look-rustic clock. A sound that would drive some people to madness, which is probably why it fit so nicely. My favorite shade of blue, they actually got it right, colors the walls, sheets, and curtains. As if they want me to feel at home here.

My room is quiet, except for the slightly muted sounds of the outside world. Highways, horns, workers.  Sounds that should blend into the background, but instead float in an out as a reminder that life goes on without me. Around my wrist hangs a loose hospital band, a key into the secret club for crazies. As if I actually belong here.

My room is quiet. My mind is not.