Dragging herself across the eggshell-colored sheets, limbs weighed down by solid concrete, the weary young woman moves a few inches and sinks down into the thin pillows. She studies at the spacious room around her, her eyes barely moving as she does so.

The walls aren’t quite white, she observes numbly, absentmindedly moving her finger in circles around the rough sheets. Indeed, the dull white paint has a slight beige tint to it and has begun to peel away, revealing an ivory color underneath that simply adds to the contrast.

A small fan lazily spins in the middle of the ceiling, providing nothing other than a monotonous whirring sound and the occasional click of its motor. The woman follows the slow rotation of its blades with her eyes for some time, devoid of purpose or reason. The sounds of the fan do not register in her mind, and she hardly sees anything at all.

She shifts her glassy gaze over to the wall perpendicular to her bed after the fan ceases its movement, and stops her roving eyes when they land on a cold metal desk and dresser. Spotless and devoid of any remarkable features, they sit next to each other, the dresser’s brass handles staring without malice or benevolence at the woman. She keeps her half-lidded eyes on the handles, returning its empty stare until the faint yellow light from the ceiling fan ceases to shine off the surface.

The wall opposite the furniture shows a curious shifting door, constantly changing its shape and features. One second it’s a heavy wooden behemoth, the next it’s solid steel with no visible handle, and then it changes into a screen door you’d find being exposed in the summer. The young lady’s wandering eyes pass briefly over this object and come to rest briefly on a small black stain in the corner of the room. It appears to bubble and ripple, moving ever so slightly. The ceiling, however, captures the inattentive eye of the woman more successfully. She follows every bump of the Stucco ceiling, though she remains distant and oblivious.

When she next moves her head to repeat the path her eyes have taken so many times, she once again sees the weathered metal furniture. One leg crumpled, the dresser tilts toward the desk, which is covered with dents and stains and reflects nothing at all.

The tattered sheets feel gritty against her pale skin, and the pillows may as well be stone. Hanging by wires, the useless fan swings softly with a dim squeaking sound, blades no longer spinning futilely. Still tirelessly changing form, the door goes unnoticed in favor of the stain climbing and spreading up the corner, a liquid sheen coating it.

Blinking slowly, the woman shifts in her tiny bed, facing away from the rest of the room. She sighs and begins counting the hundreds of cracks in the wall beside her.