It was a pink wall, a simple, plain, pink wall. On it a single spot, a dark brown stain from where I was sitting.
As I sat there staring at it, I wanted terribly to get up, go over to it and clean it from the wall. It was such a perfect wall — and it was such a vulgar stain.
Then two men came in the room and checked my restraints. I stared at the that stain, knowing it would be my focal point, and that it was blood-splatter from the last person to sit in this dead man’s chair.