The White

THE WHITE

MADELINE DREW

Copyright 2017 Madeline Drew

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Written by Madeline Drew

Edited by Nicole Thompson

Cover design by María Vargas

Published by Madeline Drew

First print January 2018

For Lorelei, the most inspiring person I never met.

CHAPTER ONE

THE WHITE SUCKS.

I’m gasping for air.

My body is shaking; I’m made of jelly.

I’m utterly exhausted. I’m feeling like I’ve just run a marathon on two hours sleep.

To make matters worse, I’m extremely uncomfortable. I’m lying awkwardly on my side with the cold, hard floor beneath me. My bones are aching painfully in this position, so I struggle to sit up.

I can’t think straight; all of my focus is stolen on trying to breathe steadily. I gasp for air, desperately hoping soon I’ll feel some relief.

Thankfully, after a few deep breaths, the tightness in my chest releases. I sit cross legged on the cold ground and enjoy the feeling of the fresh, crisp air as it occupies my lungs. Now that I can breathe easily, I relax and open my eyes.

I look around, but I can’t understand what it is I’m looking at. I twist and turn so I can see in multiple directions.

Confused, I rise to my feet, my body still shaking. I have to hold my arms out for balance as I turn my body in circles. I continue to stare in disbelief at the space around me.

I don’t know where I am, or what I’m looking at.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.

I don’t know anything.

It doesn’t matter where I look, I can’t find answers. With every second that passes my level of confusion is heightened.

I’m so confused, because I’m surrounded by nothing but white.

Each direction I look, the view remains unchanged. This whiteness is so bright it’s making my eyes water. I wait for something to appear, I wait for my eyes to realise what they are looking at.

Nothing changes. I see the same blank white, repeated over and over.

I’ve never seen anything like this.

There’s no change in shades, no clue to an exit. It’s as blank as a fresh piece of paper, unmarked and untouched.

I can’t be sure of the size of the space I’m seemingly trapped in, because I can’t find a beginning or an end.

I know it probably sounds a little crazy, but I’m not making this up. This is exactly how it happened. In fact, this is how it happened for each and every one of us. We all woke up here and found ourselves staring at nothing but white.

We’ve had countless conversations about The White. We’ve all tried to explain in our own words what it was like; it’s not easy. Reflecting on The White is almost an impossible task. It’s the hardest part about telling our story too, because it drives you crazy. It sends you into a spiral of fear, doubt and confusion.

It’s possessive.

It’s terrifying.

The White is so deeply penetrating that it feels like it’s permanently stuck inside me. I’m struggling to write all of this down, because the white just comes rushing back. It comes roaring towards me like a runaway train.

I’m helpless.

I can do nothing but stand and watch as it takes over me. Before long, I’ve forgotten about everything else. The only thing that exists is The White.

I hate The White.

I can’t escape it. If I let it creep into my mind for even a second, it shows its big ugly head again and it takes over. It’s become the monster that used to live under my bed when I was three years old.

The monster would only come out when I remembered that it was there. It would wait, hoping soon that I would think of it, so it could come out to haunt me again. And haunt me it did, every night, until I was old enough to know better.

That old monster doesn’t scare me anymore. In fact, it’s been quite a while since I’ve worried about that monster under my bed. But now that this new monster exists, I’m constantly worried

I’m constantly paranoid.

This White is a monster that I will never forget.

I detest how it takes over. I can’t stand feeling this total lack of control. I hate that every time my mind wanders to that first day I get stuck in it. I’d do anything to have that monster under my bed back now, it’s child’s play compared to the haunting whiteness.

At this very moment as I write this down, I’m feeling very, very agitated. I’m so agitated because it’s taken me days just to write the words you have read so far. Yes, you read that right, days. It’s taken days to write less than a thousand words.

It’s frustrating that this has taken me so long. I’m feeling the pressure, because everyone is counting on me to get this done.

In the beginning there was a discussion about who would take the lead with writing this, and I drew the short straw.

Well, actually, no.

That’s a lie.

There wasn’t any drawing of straws, there was no pulling a name from a hat and there was no fair vote. I was told that the writer had to be me; I wasn’t given a choice.

They all said they’d help me with this, but of course, no one put their hand up to help with the beginning. The beginning is the hardest, which is probably why no one was knocking on my door offering to help.

I didn’t anticipate just how hard it would be for me to get through The White. It's the reason it’s taken me so long to write these words. I have to stop and wait for it to subside every time I get too far into my own memories of that day. Hours upon hours have been wasted, because I have to clear my thoughts before I can continue writing this down.

It’s exhausting.

Right now, I’m in my room. I know that the door is open, just a crack, because I can hear voices from downstairs. I’m sitting at my desk on a stool that’s a little too hard for my liking. I’ve got my writing paper in front of me, and there’s a pen in my left hand. A light breeze is blowing through my window and ruffling the papers that aren’t being held down by my crystal paperweight.

Nevertheless, if I look out the window, there’s nothing to see. If I look towards the door, there’s nothing there. I can feel the stool underneath me, although I don’t see it. I can’t see the pen in my hand as I write these words on the paper. I don’t even see the words, and I definitely can’t see the paper.

Even though all these things surround me, and I know for certain that they are there, I can’t see them. I can’t see any of it, because of The White.

The penetrating white just swoops in and takes over. Each time this happens I have to wait for it to subside before I can continue.

Sometimes it takes thirty seconds for me to see clearly again, sometimes thirty minutes.

This is what happens when I think too much about the whiteness.

This is why writing it has been so time-consuming.

But this is where it all began, and I can't leave out the beginning, so I’ll do my best to make it work.

…

I’m scared and confused, but this place is quite incredible. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before in my life. I’m honestly fascinated by it.

It’s beautiful and it’s mesmerising, but at the same time it’s making me feel uneasy. The White is too much. I feel horribly queasy. At any minute I could hurl up everything that is sitting in my stomach.

The queasy feeling isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is the stinging in my eyes. It’s unbearable. I close them, hoping that it would help soothe the pain. All I see when my eyes are closed is black, and that’s almost as bad as looking at white.

It seems I have the option of leaving my eyes open and looking at white, or keeping my eyes tight shut and staring at black.

I don't want to choose either.

I grow frantic as my view changes from white to black, black to white, white to black, back and forth, over and over.

Then I figure it out.

I can’t believe it took me so long to think of it, I can’t believe I didn’t realise sooner that I did have something else to look at.

Myself.

I could look at myself.

I hold my arms out in front of me. I notice the light blonde hairs that cover my forearms. I’m relieved to see the faint lines of veins on my wrist. The relief takes me by surprise, because I’ve always hated looking at my veins. Before this moment, I had a fear of blood. Now the veins feel comforting.

I locate the freckles on my left arm, I calm slightly. My mind flashes back to a memory of a younger me, drawing on my skin with pen, connecting the freckles to one another, trying to uncover a pattern hiding in plain sight. I was always disappointed to find that there wasn’t one. My freckles are random.

A sparkle catches my eye.

I look around in confusion. Where had the sparkle come from?

Then I remember; my fingernails. They are coated in sparkly silver polish. Somehow, they’ve managed to reflect in the space around me, and for a few moments the white space is full of glistening diamonds.

I’m pleased as I look at these familiar parts of myself. These visions settle the frustration my eyes are feeling. It’s sweet relief, even if it’s only for a moment.

I look down at my clothing, seeking more distractions. I see that I’m wearing my favourite, jet-black skinny jeans, a silver-grey blouse with quarter sleeves and black strappy work heels.

Those heels are my favourite. I wear them to work three days out of five, without fail. They’re both professional and stylish, so they’re the perfect mix for the Gossip office. I always seem to receive compliments when I wear them. That’s why I have three pairs. In black, white and nude.

After I see myself, the slight feeling of unease that has been nestled inside me begins to dissolve a little. It hasn’t left me completely, it's definitely still there, but it's eased, just enough.

I might not have felt normal. I might not have felt like I was one hundred per cent me, but I looked fine. I was wearing the same outfit I’d put on that morning, in my mad rush to get to work. And my body seemed to be the same also, everything from the hairs on my arms to the shape of my cuticles, to my knobby knees that I’d unluckily inherited from my mother.

I’m still myself, even if everything around me is unknown.

To my disappointment, nothing had changed whilst I’d been focusing on myself. The whiteness still engulfs me; there really seems no way out. I’m quite literally stuck in an unknown space with no clue what’s happening or why I’m here.

I want to figure this out immediately. Like most people, I don’t enjoy feeling inadequate. I don’t enjoy feeling lost. I don’t enjoy the unknown. Curiosity is the strongest emotion I’m feeling at this point. Figuring this out is the main, if not only, goal.

Hello? I speak to the blankness around me.

I hear no response.

However, the sound of my voice answers one of my many questions. It explains the size of the space. When my voice echoed around me, I realised I’m not in a small, confined area. In my experience, small spaces don’t often echo. Here, the ricochet of my voice surrounds me.

It’s a strange feeling, hearing myself speak. It’s loud, too loud. I cover my ears with my hands, but it doesn’t make any difference, I can still hear it distinctly.

After I’d heard myself say hello for the seventh time, I began to feel really, really anxious. This place is beginning to feel like a nightmare now. It's at this exact moment that panic begins to set in.

I'm scared. Actually no, scared isn’t a strong enough word.

I'm petrified.

I'm also angry. Because I'm learning how incredibly irritating the sound of my own voice is. It keeps repeating, over and over again.

My eyes began to blur. I’m not only seeing black whilst my eyes are closed, or white whilst they are open. Now I’m seeing both; the two are mixing.

I blink.

I rub my eyes until they water. I close them tightly and count to ten. I shake my head a little, in attempt to clear my sight. My head is throbbing. I hold my hand over my ears to try and block out the noise. I shake my head again, to try and shake away the pain. I repeat these steps, again and again, and still nothing changes. I can’t remember a time where I was more irritated than I was in this moment.

I tried to ignore it. I thought that if I pretended that it wasn’t affecting me, it would all go away. Reverse psychology. I recall myself standing in one spot, sulking. I stood with my arms crossed tight and my lip trembling, as a few tears squeezed their way out. I think I even stamped my feet aggressively on the ground below me a few times.

During my tantrum I was reminded of my younger siblings when they didn’t get their way. Like the time mum refused to buy Chloe a chocolate paddle pop as part of her lunch order. Right now, I was sulking like an immature child, like Chloe had done that day.

While I was reminiscing about Chloe, something changed. A new feeling lingered all around until it filled my surroundings and caged me in. This sensation clung to my body and soaked through my skin.

I unfolded my arms and wiped away some tears. I looked around; trying to find what had changed. I paced the space, a million thoughts rushing through my mind about what had happened and why everything was feeling different.

My mind clicked.

I don’t feel alone anymore.

...

There’s now someone else here with me. I just know it.

I’m not the only person in this room anymore. I might not have known much in this moment, but I knew this for sure.

I felt comforted at the thought of another person’s company. The indication of someone being here with me calmed my fears slightly. I need to find them, maybe we could figure this out together, and make it end?

I stood for a moment, waiting, listening.

Is anyone there? I ask.

There’s no response, but I don’t let it bother me. I’m too distracted by the fact that my voice hadn’t echoed anywhere near as much as before. The echo is bearable this time. It had to mean something. I feel relieved, so I speak once more.

Is anyone there?

This time I got a response.

It made my entire body shiver.

I won’t even attempt to explain it, because you’re not going to understand. I will never be able to truly describe how I felt in that moment when I heard it.

It was a voice, and it wasn’t mine, because this time when I’d spoken, there was no echo at all. This voice confirmed my gut feeling. This voice changed everything. When I heard this voice, my adrenaline was pumping.

I’m not alone.

Who are you? the strong, strange voice questioned me.

I spin on my feet, looking eagerly in every direction, hoping to find the source of the voice. I see nothing, nothing but the vile white.

I hate it.

I hate it so much. My eyes are stinging as they cry acid tears. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t think the human eye is built to look at endless white for so long.

I’m Layla. Who are you? Where are you?

My voice comes out distorted, as I spin quickly looking for the person who spoke.

He responds immediately.

I’m Miles. I’m standing right next to you. You might stand a chance of seeing me if you slow down and stop with the strange dance, he comments sarcastically, whose that guy over there?

He has a strong voice, and I can tell by his tone that he’s feeling confident. He isn’t agitated and uneasy like I am. He isn’t scared. He’s making jokes!

Miles is cool, calm and collected.

I’m a crumbling mess.

My whole body is shaking with nerves. Jelly-me is back. I turn my head slowly to the right, to where his voice is coming from. Once my neck is completely turned, I open my eyes.

I don’t see him.

I begin thinking that I’d imagined his voice because I’d wanted some company so terribly. I’m angry with myself, but instead of exploding with anger and frustration I close my eyes again, ready to try once more. I have to give it at least two chances before I waste energy on anger.

This time, when I open my eyes, I see him.

It frightens me.

I move away quickly. Like a dog in pain when you’ve accidentally stepped on its tail when he was sleeping. I'm so shocked to see someone actually standing next to me amongst all of this bright white that I leap to the side, putting some space between the man and myself.

My jelly-legs cause me to wobble on the spot and my heart is racing from the fright. I think he can probably hear my heart, beating in my chest, a hundred miles an hour. I swear, in that moment, my heart was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.

Whose that guy over there? he repeated.

Obviously he couldn’t hear that my heart was about to burst out of my chest. His only concern was the guy he kept mentioning.

I take a deep breath and looked to where he was pointing. For a moment I only see white.

I'm ready to scream in frustration and disappointment, but then he appears, much in the same way Miles had. One moment there was nothing and then there he was.

He was sitting with his back towards us.

I try to calculate the distance between us. Fifty metres, I thought, or possibly sixty. I wonder how long he had been there before Miles had noticed him.

Who is that? Miles asked me again.

I don’t know, I said quietly.

It was the truth. I had absolutely no idea about him, about this place, about anything. I’ve never felt less knowledgeable in my life.

Let’s find out? Yea? he replied.

I watched Miles intently, ignoring his words and instead taking a few moments to memorise his features. I want to get to know him.

He’s over six foot tall. He towers over me, even though I’m in my high heels. His hair is a mess. It looks like he hasn’t brushed it in days. Or, maybe he had stuck his head out of the car window when he was driving down the highway, and the wind had its way with him.

I picture this grown man with his head out the window, much like an excited puppy, happy to be on a car ride. I chuckled to myself.

His hair was long. It fell just near his shoulders. I recently wrote an article about man buns for the magazine. We did a photo shoot with a bunch of male models, they all had man buns. All of the models we used were a unique type of handsome.

Miles would’ve been perfect for the shoot. He was tall, strangely handsome, and of course, he had the long hair. It was the ideal length for a man bun. I had to resist the temptation to lunge forward and twist his locks into a loose bun.

EXCUSE ME, Miles yelled, who are you?

His voice shattered my line of thought and shocked me back to the present moment. The space around us echoed once more. Miles’ already loud voice was booming around me. I flinch, my ears were ringing; the echo was back.

Every sound was magnified.

I wanted it to stop.

I look back at the man. Miles and I are awaiting a response, but he stays still. He just ignored Miles, he didn’t move an inch. He would’ve heard him, he definitely heard him. It was so loud it would’ve been impossible not to hear him.

I look over to Miles, waiting for his next step. I hate to admit this, as I know that Miles will read this and his ego will explode, but I wanted him to take charge. I needed him to take charge. For the first time in my life I wanted to be a follower. So, I waited for Miles to make his move.

Miles looked over to me, with a peculiar, apprehensive look on his face.

Come on, he said urgently, as he started walking towards the man.

He moved quickly, I had to jog to keep up. As I jogged along, I noticed something strange about Miles.

His walk.

That’s one thing I always notice about people; how they walk. Miles walked almost lopsided, as though one leg was significantly longer than the other, and it caused him to hobble along. Usually, people who walked like him look incredibly awkward, but he moved confidently, regardless of his strange gait. It didn’t look uncomfortable for him; it looked natural.

He sat down on the white ground next to the man. He wasn’t saying anything. He just sat there, silently and awkwardly.

I could hear his sharp breaths. I was thankful that he too was struggling to regulate his breathing after the quick stride across the space. The other man’s irregular pattern was also noticeable. In fact, the three of us were each puffing and panting like we had just finished a marathon. Neither of