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Matt Roach's Descriptive Essay: The White Room

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The room was quiet. At least, to begin with, it was. The type of silence that rips through you: plummets your heart into your stomach; makes your brain freeze. Matt Roach was waiting, seated, in the white room with goosebumps across his arms from its chill. It wasn’t a particularly cold room but the white decor created a sort of aura that lightly froze anything within.
His hands rested on a table which was the same ‘hospital white’, and handcuffs that were, thankfully, not white - which was comforting - clasped his wrists together, holding them in place. Roach had been studying his prison: a camera in front of him in the top right corner; a mirror on the wall to his left, which was almost definitely a window with multiple government officials
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