Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 1

In The White Room

By Stephen John Beccia

Copyright 2006

Death consumed Shelby. She was the devil’s beloved. With one foot in Danvers

State Hospital, she was sure her death certificate was signed and sealed. Why not? Her

life had been hell to this point, and perhaps death would bring her peace. Walking down

the tortured halls, she could already feel the doctor’s stuffing her into a coffin. The metal

doors creaked and slammed behind her. Metal fingers choked her nerves. The hospital for

the criminally insane swallowed her, drowned her, and dragged her slowly to the

darkness of her grave.

From the outside, it was impossible to tell what had gone on in this home for

mental patients, or for that matter, who had occupied the ancient brick castle. Danvers

was founded to treat patients, to heal them and help them rebuild their lives, whether they

were young or old, rich or poor. All patients committed—nobodies or high-class—would

receive special care, but what kind of care? According to the coherent residents, a stay at
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 2

Danvers was a slow and painful death rather than any kind of treatment. Departing their

cruel world, no matter what means of escape, would bring sweet sorrow.

Shelby Young was feisty, raw, and smart enough to know death was her

treatment.

“I use to be a movie star you know?!” she wailed.

“That’s right, Shelby,” the doctor humored her. A legend in your own mind.

“You bet your ass I’m right. I was Shelby Young, queen of the big screen. Wait!

No, don’t…!” The white padded door closed, clicked, and locked. “No, don’t leave me! I

don’t want to be alone!” She pounded the door with the side of her fist, pleading and

begging desperately. Her chest heaved with each deep wheezing breath.

“This isn’t fair,” she pouted.

She paused to listen.

Nothing, not a peep came from the other side of the door.

Her eyes buzzed about the room and saw nothing but white—everything about the

room was white. The padded door—although battered and showing signs of a pounding

—was completely white. The pallid walls and cold floor: white. Shadows replaced the

windows. She hated how the overhead florescent lights made her eyes flutter. In fact, the

argon tubes of bright light were overbearing, threatening to strip her of any last vestige of

sanity. She was alone and with no one to visit her: They want me to die in here. There

were no clocks, but time was all she had: Mommy, what time is it? If white could be

described as an odor, the room reeked of it, although the real smell emanated from the

foam rubber and an astringent cleaner of some sort: White can be intoxicating. How can

death be so bright?
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 3

Shelby was unaware she was being watched. Jaded by her solitary confinement,

her world was colorless. She called everything “plain-fucking-Jane.” Nothing seemed to

brighten her spirits. Yes, she hated her life, but she hated the padded room even more. At

least outside she could do whatever, and whoever, she wanted. They were controlling her

now. Rage ran through her soul like a roaring furnace, it spread like wildfire, and she

began to pound the door.

“I still have a pulse you know?” she shouted. The shrillness of her voice made her

ears ring, but there was no reply from outside.

“Why are you keeping me in here?”

There was still no reply.

“Is it because I’m a girl? Huh? Is that it? You think I’m a fucking psychotic

whacked-out bitch, don’t ya?”

No answer.

Shelby backed away from the door and looked at it with a lonely stare, an

expression of desperation and humiliation. “I still have feelings you know?! I have

rights!” Her voice was even shriller now, and something in her throat scratched and

burned.

No answer, no reply, nadda. Fuck ‘em. She huffed and blew the strands of

yellowish-blond hair from her eyes. Frustrated, she collapsed to the floor. Dust puffed out

from the white padded floor, and she began to sniffle at the stale odor that wafted into her

nose. What a shitful place.

“Hey doc…” Her voice now cracked, and the chords on her neck stood at

attention as she strained to be heard. “I’m in here, you know! I still have a heart to love
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 4

and a soul to be loved. My womanly parts haven’t gone south, you bunch of snot-picking,

fucking-dissect monsters! Do you hear me?! I said: my pussy is still good for the fucking,

you bunch of assholes! Look at this body. I’m a movie star. I’m a fucking knockout.

Marilynn Monroe, eat your fucking heart out!” She began to choke after this rampage and

bile burned her throat.

She sat patiently and listened for a reply this time because she had no choice. Her

throat ached from screaming and she doubted she had much more than a whisper left in

her. There was only silence, just a chilling breath of deadly air. Silence was not

satisfactory, and neither were her surroundings. Imprisoned in a white tomb, a coffin of

four white walls, a white ceiling, and a white floor, she was about ready to puke until she

noticed something on the wall to her left: a two-by-three foot mirror covered over with a

pane of Plexiglas.

Shelby forced herself to her feet, and walked cautiously over to the glass. Her

distressed reflection waved. Now, something new troubled her. She felt uncomfortable. A

subconscious nagging sensation had been biting her since she entered the room, but it

wasn’t until that moment she realized she was being watched.

From the other side of the security glass, two men looked on. “What’s wrong with

her, Doctor Bennington?” Bobby the orderly asked.

The doctor scribbled something on his notepad and replied softly, “She appears to

be bipolar, although she has tendencies of a manic depressive person. You think she is

schizophrenic, don’t you?”

Bobby nodded. Light cast his bald head with a greasy glare. “She sure does, boss.

She sure does.”

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 5

The doctor sighed and pulled at his billy-goat scruff. Never had he encountered

someone like Shelby in the fifty-two years of treating patients. “The fact is there’s

nothing wrong with her. She appears to be dramatizing. Her symptoms are fabricated. Cat

scans, blood tests, ultrasounds, and every other test imaginable all indicate that she is

simply and utterly depressed. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

“Then why keep her here, doc?”

“Safety,” the doctor replied in a matter-of-fact tone. He stared up at Bobby and

continued. “Her depression has caused her to be suicidal. If we can cure her depression,

and get past her wild and vivid imagination …well then, she’ll be as good as gold. I see

no reason why someday soon she will be free to walk the streets again and live a normal

life.”

“It sure is a shame she ended up here.” Bobby watched Shelby through a security

window, and she stared back at Bobby. She did not know he was there but felt a presence

from behind the mirror. Their two worlds were so close, but yet, so far away. She then

became narcissistic and studied herself obsessively in the mirror. Shelby puckered her

soft, velvety red lips and pretended to put on lipstick. She blew a kiss and smiled. Crystal

blue eyes sunken into sallow sockets squinted at her reflection. She huffed, letting her

perky breasts rise and fall rapidly. She immediately began to rake her fingers through her

blond hair, pulling at strands of yellowish silk. She screamed, panted, and then smiled

wickedly like some sort of wild diva having a temper tantrum. Playfully, she squeezed in

her cheeks and made silly fish lips. The tint of crimson on her raised cheekbones and the

sparkle in her eyes made Bobby believe there was still life in her, and he found it hard to

believe a girl so beautiful could be in a demented place such as a state hospital. Most of
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 6

the residents looked like drowned rats, smashed apples, and beat up sacks of lumpy

potatoes. Other than Shelby’s radiance, Bobby saw no beauty in the old rundown

hospital.

Bobby waved and put a hand to the glass. Love hugged his eyes.

Doctor Bennington laughed. “She can’t see you, you know.” He tapped on the

glass and then walked away.

Bobby knew damn well she couldn’t see him. Just the same, he became euphoric

watching her day in and day out, studying her luscious body. Lustful thoughts pumped

his blood while he pressed his face to the window and observed her every move. From

that day forward, whenever he could get away from his duties, he peered into her world.

The longer Shelby’s stay, her wits bled with boredom. She despised the color

white. Constant white whistling noise rang through her ears. She laughed manically at her

internal chaos, poking her fingers relentlessly, hoping to jab her eardrums, but to no avail,

her ears still rang.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 7

Boredom hammered her brain and twisted thoughts: How can I kill myself? How

can I escape? Better yet: how can I paint this hideous and boring room?

Shelby stood up and whittled her chin with a thought—a wonderful thought.

“This room needs a makeover,” she said aloud. She walked to the corner and reached

down, pretending to pick something up. She swirled her right hand around in circles,

brushing the air. An imaginary paint can shaped her left hand like an open C.

“Hey, doc! I hope you don’t mind if I paint this room polka-dotted yellow.” There

was no answer, of course. There was never an answer. “What’s wrong with you people?

Don’t you speak?”

For the next hour, she went about the room as if she were painting the walls in

long, steady strokes. Finally, she stood back and observed her work. “It’s a fucking

masterpiece.” She giggled. “The room looks great, but it needs some stuff.”

She walked to the mirror covered by Plexiglas, which was now no longer a mirror

but a service window at a store called DRIVE BY FURNITURE STORE. The store had

everything she needed to redecorate, even vases filled with daffodils. She put everything

in her imaginary carriage. The carriage grew bigger to match her imagination. She even

managed to get a large plasma TV in the carriage, but it only lasted a day, until Shelby

had a panic attack and smashed it to pieces. She had prayed the shards of glass would cut
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 8

her, blood would run, and the room would be red, but no such luck playing in an

imaginary world.

When she awoke the following morning, she was still in the same white prison.

White hell, she called it.

There was a knock at the door. Shelby jumped. It had been a while since she had a

visitor. Now’s my chance to escape, she thought. Slowly, the door opened with a loud

creak. A six-foot-six, dark-skinned, bald-headed man stood in the doorway with a big

smile. The man dressed in white held a tray of food. “Time for lunch, Miss Shelby.”

“I’m not hungry. I want to get the fuck out of here and get a pet. Can I have a

fucking pet?” She grabbed her crotch and moaned for no apparent reason.

“No, ma’am. No pets today. But if you have a little something to eat, maybe I can

convince the doc to let you have one.”

“Liar!” She spat haughtily. “You’re gonna shove that big thing of yours down my

throat. You don’t give a fuck about me. No one does. Just fuck me up the ass, why don’t

you?”

His big brown eyes held only amusement as he looked at her. He hardly could

keep from laughing and it showed with the shit-eating grin on his stout face. The dimples

in his cheeks appeared to be winking at her. Deep chugging laughter, much lower than a

baritone singer in the chorus, escaped his grinning lips. “You sure are a funny one. You

must have been one fine actress. For a moment, I thought you were mad at me, Miss

Shelby you sure is a funny one. So how about a bite to eat?”

“Fine. Have it your way with me—I’m just like Burger King,” she retorted

dramatically. She finally succumbed to his gentle manner, and sat down Indian fashion.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 9

Bobby took in a deep breath and asked softly, “Is it safe for me to enter then?”

“Yes, fine, just get it over with.”

Bobby nodded and entered the room. Two other orderlies stepped in the room and

waited by the door.

Shelby’s eyes darted around. She drew back and her lips began to tremble.

Bobby approached slowly and sat in front of Shelby, towering over her. “Please

don’t be frightened. We are here to help you and make sure that you don’t hurt yourself

or others.” He rested the tray on his lap, put on powder-free latex gloves, stretching them

over his big brown hands, and gave her a big smile—a smile that she couldn’t refuse to

smile back at.

Shelby smirked and let Bobby feed her lunch, one bite at a time. She didn’t talk

much, other than to say “thanks” and “more” in a provocative manner. Her mesmerizing

blue eyes did a number on Bobby, scanning his body, seducing him like some sort of

Mata Hari. At the end of her meal, she leaned forward and sniffed Bobby’s neck,

moaning and rolling her eyes back to expose the whites.

Bobby had to hide his large erection behind the tray as he exited the room. He

smiled sheepishly as the door closed behind him with a soft, muffled thump.

Shelby stared at the plain door. Why? She had no idea. Perhaps she expected

something to happen. It was too quiet. She listened to her breath: in, out, in, out. Restless,

she shifted her body, listening to the scratching of her linen pants on the rubber mat. She

held still and…

CLICK!

Her heart began to race.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 10

She snapped her head to the left as another door—one that she had never seen

before—opened. Anticipation cemented her to the spot. Her tongue scraped the sour

pasty taste in her mouth. Swallowing was an effort. Nails raked her gullet. Shelby

clutched her chest to stop the thrumming. Curiosity made her lean forward and then back,

when a burly man pushing a two-wheeler hauled a refrigerator in the room; he placed it in

the center of the room, opened the door, and smiled like a game-show host pointing at the

shelves stocked with orange juice.

Shelby’s mouth stood agape.

When she turned to thank the man, he vanished back through the door. Shelby

giggled, reached into the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of juice. She tapped on the

plastic to make sure it was real.

Tapped.

Plastic?

Shook.

Tapped.

Glass?

Shook.

Her heart leaped—the orange juice was real. Moving rabbit-like, she unscrewed

the cover, and took a long, hard sniff. Tangy! The thought of cold juice down her dry

throat gave made her squirm in her pants. But the color …oh, how the color made her

ornery. She tossed the first bottle across the room. Juice exploded like fireworks, ran

down the walls, and wormed its way into the floor. Bottle after bottle, she pitched at the

wall until the fridge was empty. Exhausted, she turned to see her masterpiece.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 11

Shelby’s eyelids were like wasp’s wings fluttering along an attic window.

Head turned like a lost dog, she stared, confused. No stains were left behind, no

broken bottles, or refrigerator for that matter. The white wall screamed at her.

What’s happening to me? She pinched her arm and began to cry.

Her life had become one big white stain.

Shelby paced back and forth like a caged lion, panting and scowling. She rushed

to the walls and pounded them repeatedly with her fists. Her head plowed forward and

butted the white padding relentlessly. Over and over, thump after thump, her forehead, a

juggernaut, pounded, blocked, and tackled the army of white.

Bobby and a team of orderlies rushed in the room.

“Miss Shelby, stop!” Bobby begged.

The wildcat hunched in the corner, panting, drooling. Shelby’s eyes jogged in

their sockets.

The orderlies moved closer.

Shelby turned her head side to side; her bones snapped like firecrackers.

Watching her enemy close in, her eyes burned. One hand clasped on her forearm, and the

wildcat within assaulted her opponent. She struggled, kicked, bit, scratched, and mauled

anything in front of her. More orderlies rushed into the room wrestling the beast into

submission. They placed Shelby in a physical restraint that lasted nearly two hours—a

long two hours. Immediately after, she was fitted into a straitjacket, and left alone in the

room to cool.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 12

Great, she thought. I’m locked in a room and wrapped up in a white zoot-suit.

How long will they leave me in a straightjacket, wrapped like a pretzel in the middle of

the floor…in the middle of…a…fucking white room? How long?!

Bobby monitored Shelby from the next room behind the hidden glass. He watched

as she moved her head about, lethargically. Poor cat, she was drained and exhausted.

Foaming bubbles of saliva rolled off her lips. Shelby laughed suddenly, and moaned as if

she were intoxicated. Hysterical gibberish lashed from her foul tongue. Her glazed eyes

with the far away stare turned their direction to the mirror on the wall. Those eyes fixed

right in on the man behind the hidden glass.

Bobby sucked in icicles.

“Am I f-f-fucking dreamin’!” she yelled and slurred her words. “Sssm ‘body else

is in dis room! Can’t you’s sees him?”

Shelby thought she was having a nightmare—one where she was very much

awake. To her right, she watched helplessly while the intruder crept in through the wall.

“What do you want with me? Oh, it’s you. Stay away from me. I killed you in that

movie, ‘Night of the Haunted Green Man’.” Her words were more coherent now. Her

thoughts fell off the charts …

The dreaded leprechaun laughed and ran across Shelby’s path. The little green

man jabbed Shelby in the chest with his shillelagh, and played hide and seek in between

the cracks of the foam rubber. He appeared. Then he disappeared again. Much later, the

leprechaun came out to torment Shelby when the orderlies changed shifts. It was a

playful hurtful game called ‘beat on Shelby’, a game she never won.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 13

Bobby watched and wondered where Shelby’s imagination had traveled. He could

still smell the sweetness from her sweat on his clothes; it made his muscles twitch. He

watched her, and he fantasized.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 14

The following day, four orderlies stepped in the room and removed the

straitjacket. Shelby was sore, stiff, and wet in the crotch. She waited for the men to leave

the room, and then she leaned back and touched herself—

CLICK!

A small door opened, and the green man stepped into the room.

Shelby sprang to her feet and ran after the little green snot. She tried desperately

to catch the little leprechaun, but he was too fast. Giving up she sat down and tried

pleading with him to cast a rainbow in the pallid room.

He laughed. The little Irish bloke laughed, and did a little jig in the middle of the

room. Seeing that Shelby was not amused, he stopped and lit his long stemmed pipe. He

blew circles of smoke that choked her, made her cough, and gag.

Shelby chucked him the Big Bird.

Frustrated, she bowed her head and remembered a time when she had managed to

grasp the little bugger. Perhaps leaving the leprechaun alone was a better Idea. The last

time he lashed out at her and snapped his sharp fangs in her face. Following that episode,

she cowered in the corner for two days, sucking her thumb, and she remained speechless.

The doctor’s didn’t know why, but Shelby did.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 15

“What day is it? Hello!” She tapped on the mirrored Plexiglas.

No one answer. Bobby was not there,

She began talking to her reflection.

Her reflection answered, “Check your calendar on the wall, you stupid washed-up

bitch.”

Shelby gritted her teeth and turned to her right. The wall was covered in dried up

snot. She had marked the days with green and yellow boogers and mucus. Her fingers ran

over the makeshift calendar. “October first,” she muttered. What year, let alone what day,

she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t even remember how long she had been in the white room.

On Shelby’s fortieth birthday, Bobby and the other staff members had a party for

the old bitch. Bobby carried in a vanilla cake with white frosting and white candles on

top—forty of them blazing with white-hot flames.

Shelby blew out the candles and white smoke danced around her head.

The plates were made of paper and the forks were white plastic. This was her life,

past, present, and future: white, white, and more fucking white.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 16

She was give many presents that stay locked up in another room, but she wanted

the most she did not get. Shelby pouted. She told Bobby she was bored and wanted a dog

to keep her company.

“Now, Miss Shelby, you know the doctor said they are too messy, and besides,

they wouldn’t let you keep a pet in here.”

Shelby frowned at Bobby’s answer.

They—who the hell are they anyway? Someone once said to Shelby, They are the

majority. They are the other side. They are the good people. But Shelby thought

otherwise—she thought they were bad. She thought they were responsible for her

downfall.

She grew tired after the party and slept for fourteen hours.

“Wake up, Shelby,” Dr. Bennington’s voice sounded way off in the distance.

“You need to wake up and talk to me for a while.”

Shelby pried her eyes open. Her forehand wiped spittle from her check, and she

slowly pushed her frail body into a sitting position. “About what? I’m fine, and I want to

go home.” Her beautiful blue eyes were now sunken into her skull. She looked tired and

worn, and her skin looked slightly jaundiced.

“Yes, I know that is what you would like, but first tell me about this statement

you wrote when they admitted you here—the one about when you were five.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 17

Dr. Bennington ran his fingers along the nape of his neck. Shelby caught a whiff

of his sweet smelling aftershave and moaned.

“Don’t start with the eroticism, Shelby. We are only trying to treat you so you can

go home. So please tell me about when you were five.”

Defeated, Shelby huffed. “Fine. Now, I know you are going to think this is crazy,

but when I was five, I crawled behind the living room couch. I was playing behind the

couch, and I was far too bored—kind of like I am right now—and then I stopped and

became frightened out of my wits.” She stopped speaking and put her fingers over her

quivering lips. These rekindled memories sent ice through her veins, and she trembled

violently.

“Please, go on,” the doctor said, looking up from his notes. “Why did you stop?”

The shape of a demon took form on the woman’s face. “Because, I’m fucking

scared!” Shelby began to rant. “I’m scared of you, them …everyone! This world is

crawling with aliens, and you’re one of them, aren’t you?!”

The doctor chuckled, somewhat amused, and unable to contain himself. “No, I am

just a doctor. There are no such things as aliens.”

Shelby let out a grunt. “Okay, so maybe it wasn’t an alien. But when I was behind

that couch, I saw what I saw: it was me, an exact replica of me. I put my hand up and

there was no mirror there, and so I backed up while some other evil clone groped at me,

and tried to take me away, to replace me. You know what I’m saying?”

The doctor put his pencil down and nodded. “Yes, I do. It says here that, when

your parents found you, you were in the center of the living room. Your shirt was torn,

and you were sucking your thumb. Is that right?”

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 18

Shelby nodded painfully. Tears streamed down her angelic cheeks. “No one

believed me, of course. Dramatic bitch is what they called me. It’s cruel is what it is.”

She broke down into hard sobs.

Shelby’s world wasn’t always white. In her youth, she held on to some dignity,

and would never let the evil clone consume her. Things were much colorful back then.

But there were sacrifices that painted her road white; her insanity lead to a life of

pills, doctors, and things of plain white—the white room, and the white clothes.

And now, she looked at her boring clothes and cringed. She would have given her

uterus to change the colors of her clothes. Her eyes closed, and she let her imagination off

the leash—

What about tie-dyeing the plain, white garments? No, that wouldn’t be the correct

attire for the Oscars. They might laugh at me while I accept my award for Over-

Dramatic Bitch in a reality show. Ha!

She was in a limousine. Outside a crowd of fans cheered and the camera bulbs

flashed. The red carpet awaited her arrival. The reporters, and more importantly, the fans

waited for the famous movie star. The critics all lined up to see what Shelby Young was

wearing to this year’s Oscars. The car door opened and the fans gasped. Shelby walked

out onto the red carpet naked, caressing her nipples while the crowd booed.

“What! Why are you booing me?! I’m Shelby-fucking-Young—

“Miss Shelby …you okay?”

She opened her eyes at the sound of a low scratchy voice.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 19

Bobby and a nurse were standing in the doorway.

Bobby had his head turned away. “Miss Shelby, you need to put your clothes on

or we will have to do it for you. And if you don’t wish to comply, then we will be forced

to use the straightjacket.”

“I’ll bet you’re getting a hard-on right now, aren’t ya, big boy.” Shelby winked,

and then got dressed.

Bobby left the room, hard and embarrassed.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 20

Shelby’s foster parents kicked her out at the age of nineteen. One drunken

afternoon, she tried to steal a gun from a nearby police officer on the corner of Third and

Lincoln. She had downed a fifth of Jack Daniels at Moe’s Pub and let five guys have their

way with her in the back room. Afterward, she roamed the streets looking for a fight.

When she met Officer West, she tried to seduce him. He threatened to arrest her if she

didn’t stop loitering, and that’s when she threw herself on the cop. She pulled at the gun

stuffed into its holster, trying desperately to take possession, and then quickly found

herself on the pavement receiving the beating of a lifetime. The officer used his billy club

until she was unconscious.

Shelby always referred to a police officer’s baton as a Bully Club from that day

on.

Two days later, she woke up in a garbage can near South Boston. It was a month’s

journey back to California. She did what she had to do to get home. Blowjobs, hand jobs,

and spreading her legs paid for better part of the way. She was broke, tired and officially

a whore when she pulled into Los Angeles. Her run down apartment where her foster

family lived was now vacant, and there was no note or forwarding address left behind.

She was abandoned and lonely.

She had become a pimp’s best friend for a year as she turned to prostitution. She

had done everyone from the Mayer to local school officials, and even Dick the milkman

got his kicks on Route 66. There was nothing to hook onto in the streets, except sex and
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 21

drugs—no love and no affection just painful addictive abuse. She came unglued

eventually, and she understood that it was all part of their plan to get her into the white

room. Everyone was out to get her.

She travelled to New York and then back to Boston trying to redeem herself in the

movie biz. An adult film star is what she had become.

And now, in the white room, Shelby began to scream with terror when the lights

went out for the night. Then she lay in darkness and thought, what a great color. The

utter darkness was better than white, except Shelby had known the darkness also brought

out her demons—

The wolf. He hid in the room, and waited for the lights to go out. The fluffy white

animal lurked in the gloom, and hunted for his food. A foul odor, coppery and rancid, like

rotted meat, swam through the air. The wolf panted.

Shelby scurried across the floor in the darkness until she felt the firmness of the

wall. She pushed against it and her head snapped left to right trying to let her eyes adjust

to the pitch.

The wolf’s sharp nails clicked, scrapped, and shuffled on the padded floor.

Shelby shuddered.

“Get away from me!” She thrashed her hands in the open air.

The room had gone silent. Only Shelby’s heavy breathing could be heard. The

cogs in heart slowed. Her eyes began to droop. Things seemed tranquil, but only for a

minute.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 22

A cold, wet nose nudged and sniffed her ankle. A sandpapered tongue licked her

skin. The captain steering her heart called out: “Fire up the engine and full steam ahead!”

Her heart pumped with fear. She cringed when the wolf growled. She rocked and rolled

from side to side, trying franticly to escape the invading wolf. This was not the first time

that the carnivorous creature had taken chunks of flesh from Shelby’s body. The wolf had

been around. His first taste of Shelby was when she was just ten-yeas-old—

On a hot summer night, Shelby’s parents were awakened by her screams of

terror. When they arrived in her room, she was covered in blood, the curtains swayed in

the breeze of the open window, and her hand was mauled and maroon. A large bruise left

a welt in the shape of an O across her left palm. The throbbing bite mark was a fountain

of red. She babbled and screamed: “the white wolf got me! The white wolf!”

She called this demon Whitey-the-wolf thereafter.

“Who is Whitey?” Dr Bennington asked. “Shelby, come on. Talk to me. You

were just having a nightmare, that’s all.”

“It—was—no—nightmare. I told you: Whitey was the wolf that crept into my

room and hid under my bed. I told them to keep a light on, but they wouldn’t fucking

listen. Are you fucking listening to me?” Shelby spat a clump of mucus in the doc’s face.

The doctor nodded, and then exited the room. The lights went out, and she

screamed again.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 23

10

One Friday—Shelby assumed it was Friday because that was as good a name for

the day as any—she was privileged with a visitor. Mrs. Marsh was the only real friend

Shelby had left. The old rich-bitch had taken care of Shelby after her first foster parents

died in an accidental fire. The fire happened when Shelby was twelve, and thankfully,

Shelby got out alive. The grey haired lady with a thick Jersey accent had taken Shelby

into her care for one year, until Shelby was placed in the care of yet another set of foster

parents. Mrs. Marsh had taken a liking to Shelby and visited her from time to time, until

the street life swallowed her up at the age of nineteen.

Mrs. Marsh had received a phone call not long after Shelby was admitted to

Danvers. Shelby begged her to come and visit, and so the old lady obliged.

Mrs. Marsh arrived with a coloring book and crayons, which was not something

that a forty year-old woman would normally care about, but coloring was something that

Shelby liked and Mrs. Marsh had known it well.

Shelby had commented on the white pages. “I’m going to color every inch in the

book.” She sniffed the waxy smelling crayons with delight.

Mrs. Marsh smiled. She watched Shelby closely. “You have always done a fine

job with coloring. Maybe someday soon I can bring you paints. Would you like that?”

Shelby had cheered like a child as she continued to color contentedly. The

conversation was normal and the day was calm, until Mrs. Marsh noticed that a blue

crayon had disappeared. Shelby always wanted to be a magician, and she said she had
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 24

made the blue crayon disappear and couldn’t remember the spell to bring it back. A little

white lie is not bad, she thought, white like everything else in my world but these crayons.

Mrs. Marsh lost her temper and cussed at Shelby. The woman’s screech reminded

Shelby of a school teacher she had in the third grade, Ms. Cranston. Ms. Cranston was a

raving lunatic that Shelby hated with a passion. Shelby lashed out at Mrs. Marsh,

thinking the whole time she was beating on her third grade teacher. Nevertheless, Mrs.

Marsh walked out of the room with her hair disheveled, and huge welts spotting her

cheeks.

Shelby spent the next two hours in a restraint.

11

The week after Mrs. Marsh’s visit, Shelby hadn’t talked much. She refused to eat,

and was severely depressed.

Mumbling and muttering was all Bobby heard from behind the hidden glass.

Occasionally Shelby would sputter: “It’s the seventh. It’s the seventh—beware of seven.”

Days went by, and Bobby recorded these notes of babbling in a journal. Finally,

after a week he shared his concerns with Dr. B.

‘Look here: she keeps talking about this number seven as if it was a creature …or

something. She doesn’t eat. She won’t look at me. I really think she is the worst she’s

been since we took her in.”

“Perhaps, Bobby. Is she awake? She’s just lying there.”

“It’s hard to tell. She’s been quiet for some time now.”
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 25

Bobby opened the door and Doctor Bennington walked into the room. Cautiously,

he moved into the room and observed Shelby. Her glassy eyes gazed back at the doctor

like marionette on a lonely toy shelf. She sucked her thumb like a baby milking on her

mother’s breast. The doctor’s eyes water at an overwhelming scent of urine. He took two

steps back, and contemplated retreating to the hall.

“Shelby, can you hear me?” the doctor asked from across the room.

No answer from the thumb sucker.

Reaching into his breast pocket, the doctor pulled out what looked like a pen.

Click. A small beam of white light flashed from the pen-light; he pointed the beam into

Shelby’s glazed eyes.

There was no reaction. Not a blink. Her deadpan stare was fixed on the white

walls. Slowly, her wrinkled white thumb slipped from her lips. She mouthed something,

silently, and then a strange gasp escaped her throat.

“Seven, seven, seven—beware of seven,” her voice was robotic, monotone.

The droning sent shivers up the doctor’s spine. He took a deep breath, and tried to

reason with her. “Shelby, the number of the beast is six-six-six, and so there is no reason

to worry about seven…”

“Seven ate nine, you asshole! Everybody knows that!” her shrieking voice left a

ring in the doctor’s ears.

Shelby said no more, and went back to sucking her thumb.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 26

12

Over the course of the following three days, Shelby ate nothing and repeatedly

called out the word seven. She lay on her side all day and night, and wondered why the

President lived in the white house. She convinced herself that sugar, salt, and even flour

were part of the white devil’s soul.

Why couldn’t I have been born a brunette or a redhead, she wondered. .She

tugged repeatedly on her straight blonde hair. It was a shame no one could see how

beautiful her blue eyes sparkled—even in her sunken sockets there was a sign of beauty.

Frustrated, she pulled clumps of hair from her head and ended up in restraints for three

hours.

13

Later that night, Bobby checked on Shelby at nine-fifteen. She had been sleeping

soundly, and a pool of drool lay beneath her mouth. He walked into the hall, closed the

door, turned off the light, and sat back to read his a copy of Sports Illustrated. His eyes

only glared at the pages, and in his mind, he began to fantasize…

Shrills and screams of terror filled the white room.

Bobby fell off his chair, and reached for his radio. “Staff alert! Staff alert! Staff

alert!” he shouted into his walkie-talkie. His voice, so frantic, sent chills to other

residents along the hall.

Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 27

Cautiously, Bobby turned on Shelby’s light. He keyed the door, and raced inside.

Horror jabbed his heart. His mocha-colored cheeks were washed over with tears. Each

pounding beat of his heart throbbed in his ears, he could hardly hear on think. Smelling

his own fear, he walked slowly to Shelby’s side. His sweet fantasy girl, his one and only

love, lay dead in his arms. He rocked her back and forth.

When the others stepped in the room, Bobby had blood on his hands and he was

wailing like a big baby.

Panic, confusion, and terror dashed through the room of doctors and orderlies.

They carefully examined the room of terror. Shelby’s blood-smeared body lay naked in a

pool of blood. Clumps of her blond hair were plastered on the white walls, adhered by

clots of shredded, bloody flesh. To Shelby’s right, a red arch covered the wall from

corner to corner. It was a bloody rainbow.

Something had ripped bites out Shelby’s stomach, her white gown had been tied

tightly around her neck, and her face was bruised and purple. Her mouth was drawn up

into an evil smile and her blue eyes were glazed over by a milky white substance.

On the left wall, Shelby had drawn a picture of a refrigerator, a vase full of

flowers and a large screen TV. She drew a picture of a heart with her own blood, and

underneath it she wrote the words, Bobby loves Shelby.

Next to the bloody heart, another caricature was drawn in red; it was the head of a

leprechaun; the little booger was climbing out from one of the white foam pads. Next to

the little Irish block was large picture of the white wolf. Shelby had drawn Whitey the

wolf eating all the seven’s that she had smeared in blood on the white padding. The

number’s 689 and a smiley faces circled the picture of the wolf.
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 28

On the far wall, a final portrait dripped in blood. Shelby was no Picasso but her

artwork spoke for itself—

A gun pointed to the head of stick figure. There was an arrow with the word

BANG over the figures head. The stick-man wore a shirt with the name DOCTOR on his

chest. The face had no eyes, nose, or mouth. Just the numbers 666 were filled into the

circled head.

Shelby felt nothing now as her spirit floated through the white room. She could

hear Bobby crying and cackling like a seal as he flailed his head back and forth like a

lunatic. He would eventually end up in a room just down the hall.

There was distress in the orderlies’ voices as they tried to revive her, but she

would not have that. No more white room for Shelby. No more endless days of white.

She craved an invigorating heaven of color. Finally, her restless soul felt calm, peaceful.

Her body traveled helplessly, floating through a tunnel of multicolored lights, flashing

and swirling faster past her eyes. She was sucked into the vortex and toward something

powerful and bright. God, she thought. Heaven awaits me. No more painful life. No more

feelings of loneliness and sorrow. I’m free of this hellacious world.

A pulsing light appeared at the end of the colorful tunnel, and as Shelby’s soul

rushed into the white light, she wailed in utter horror when she heard a deep voice say,

“Welcome back, Miss Young.”

“God?” she called out expectantly.

God did not answer her.

The white-haired diva gasped for air, choking on the stale, chalky atmosphere.

Reality screamed at her when she opened her eyes dreadfully wide. Everything she hated
Stephen Beccia/In the White Room 29

rushed back into focus, including her pain and sorrow. By some small miracle, Shelby

Young was alive—alive with a second chance in the white room.