The Treatment Room by Kori Bower (21, Ohio)

The interior appears oddly bright, and so blue -- a
perfect color for the innocent fish circling, blissful,
along the walls, unaware that they’re already trapped.

Directly across from the entrance rests a bed. Firm 
foam padding for easy sanitation, rubber straps along 
the sides, a pull-out stool at the base -- the sort tiny 
legs can never resist, climbing high onto the bed.

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The bed is so close to the door --so near the closest 
thing to an air hole in this shoebox of a room -- and
yet always just too far away. 

The scents of past procedures loiter, permeate, 
overwhelming the senses. Though far from the 
only odors to outlive the room’s past occupants:
isopropyl, adhesive remover, and the “scentless” 
cleaner that seems to exist everywhere and nowhere
at once in places like this are, invariably, what sticks. 

A heady mix, one that follows and haunts for hours 
after. One of the many ghosts of this place; the 
remnant of a poisonous plant, tangling its roots too 
deeply around the sinuses to be weeded out. 

Cabinets line the far side of the room. A sink is 
carved into the top on one end, while an endless 
counter stretches all the way down to the other; a safe 
place to rest all of the tools that one might need, 
away from searching little fingers. 

A single rolling stool is all that remains; its wheels
are locked up tight as the door, tight as the chests of 
those who pass through. Sleek, grey, unfeeling leather
stares back from where it’s been left in the center of 
the room, completely unblemished and unaffected by
any pain its rolling around may bring.