White walls. White floors. White ceilings. Everything in his life was white and Tom liked it that way just fine. Within the white he was safe, he was protected and he enjoyed a simple life. Within the white he was clean, his world was clean and he got everything he wanted. Like his crayons. At the moment he sat at his table once again, crayon held in his hand which he used to continually make a circle over and over on the paper. Today the color was yellow and many thought that perhaps he had decided to draw the sun. Something he had not seen in some years.<br/><br/>The last time he had seen the sun was when he was very small…<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">It had been sunny the day they came for him. Out on the porch he played with his blocks, which he contented himself with the process to stack and then unstack them over and over again. With there being no true rhymes or reason to the action, but he did become distressed if someone interfered with him. Men in black suits and military dress uniform pulled up to the house. There steps slow though purposely as they approached the porch where he played. <br/><br/>“Excuse me son,” he spoke to the young boy, who did not respond nor look up from his blocks. “Where’s your mommy? Or Daddy?” <br/><br/>These were familiar words; familiar names and the boy stopped and finally raised his gaze to meet that of the man. Just as he turned to look toward the house he caught sight of a girl who had been across the street skipping rope.</span><br/><br/>This phantom memory girl must have triggered something, for one moment he had been drawing a sun, then Tom’s eyes went white and his hand began to move far faster than it had just a moment ago.<br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><a class="postlink" href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7068/6950866465_2d85ff0261_z.jpg">[ img ]</a></div><br/><br/><br/>By the time he was done, another image had had been drawn on the paper before him. Something that blocked out his sun and made him sad.