All he could see was that blasted white. Blank, white walls and milky, white floors and chalky, white ceilings; they boxed him in on all sides. The sheets tucked tightly beneath him were ivory. His gown, the exact shade of freezing winter snow. That infuriating, incessantly ticking clock? Colorless, right down to each shallowly engraved number, near invisible against the cream of its ghostly pale face. Whichever buffoon decided that was a good idea ought to be shot.
Just outside the thin walls, if he strained his ears, he could hear the faint noises of muted footsteps, soft murmurs, an occasional distant wail, all accompanied by the machines that whooshed and whirred as they labored through the infuriatingly long days: his own private symphony, just audible over the ceaseless cacophonous beat of that damned clock. Or was it night? He could never be sure. He wasn't afforded the luxury of a window; they'd told him that soon he'd have no use for one anyway.
Paralyzed from the neck down, that's what the doctors said. Nothing they did could make him feel anything. He might as well be dead.