The walls in the psych ward are blank. They’re painted a neutral warm grey that’s probably supposed to be comforting but actually make the place feel too closed-in and constricting.
But that’s okay. He doesn’t need anything, not right now. His hands feel heavy and he’s okay with not moving them; he’s okay with not moving at all.
It’s quiet here and no one’s asking him to do anything but talk with a psychologist (he doesn’t talk; words are more than he can do right now and his mouth feels loose, like if he started talking he wouldn’t be able to stop) and eat (drink) a few times a day. It’s better than medical had been, in some ways, but worse in that he has to think about the Kyles.
He doesn’t want to, but he’s told that he has to, and his mouth tastes like ashes and he can’t touch his own skin without feeling like he’s about to crack open and bleed.
He closes his eyes against the grey and doesn’t do anything at all.