Reading brouhaha's journal

While cleaning my room today I came across this story I wrote while I was in school. I'm pretty sure it was for an english class. Here it is:

The hallway is vacant. The dark green walls and the floor of ancient, worn flagstone give the hallway such a melancholy feeling. A massive, deep brown, dingy and battered chair is the only piece of furniture in this hallway. Next to this chair stands a chipped enamel chamber pot. It seemed to be the only attempt at some sort of decoration.

My attention is drawn to a door, which slowly opens. The walls in this room are painted a light green and the floor is also of ancient, worn flagstone. This room belongs to Mary. Mary is a small-framed woman with short black hair. Her life is filled with overwhelming sorrow. I know this because I see her sitting in the corner of her room, her arms wrapped around her knees, her body slowly rocking back and forth. The endless tears pour from her tightly shuteyes as she mumbles to herself.

As time passes, the sadness becomes easier for her to bear. The endless tears soon stop falling from her eyes. But the sadness has not disappeared from her face. She wipes the tears away from her eyes with her hands as she picks herself up from the floor and walks over to her black iron bed. She inhales and exhales deeply before sitting down on the white cotton sheets of her bed. Her attention is drawn to the hallway where she hears footsteps approaching. A woman in a white, shapeless dress with unkempt gray hair and coarse, lisle stockings sagging down over her black, worn shoes is now standing in the doorway of her room. This woman enters Mary’s room and closes the door behind her.

Right across from Mary’s room is Kathy’s room. Her door is also open. Kathy’s room has no personal items of any kind, which gives off a cold, empty feeling. Kathy spends most of her day staring out of the bare window in her room. The outside world is what she greatly fears. The only world she chooses to know is the one she lives in inside the walls of her room.

An unfamiliar face catches my attention. Slowly making her way along the walls of the hallway she drapes a colorless, quilted, cotton shawl around her shoulder while humming a melody I do not recognize. What I find peculiar about this woman is her walk. Her walk seems to be more of a graceful stride, like that of a ballerina. Her presence does not go unnoticed. The sound of heavy footsteps echoes through the hallway. They belong to an elderly woman in an untidy, crumbled, white uniform. She approaches the ballerina from behind and grabs hold of her upper arm. The little expression of happiness the ballerina once had upon her face has vanished and is replaced by an intense anger. Unable to break free from the grasp of the elderly woman the ballerina begins to physically unleash her anger upon the elderly lady.

The hallway is no longer peaceful. They are now filled with shouts for help, cries of pain and cries of anger. Two women in white uniforms come to the aide of the elderly woman, who is now lies on the floor bleeding for the scratches on her arm inflicted by the ballerina. The two women are able to restrain the ballerina. They force her down the hallway and disappear from sight as they enter an unoccupied room. The elderly woman gathers her composure as she walks back up the hallway.

The hallways are now peaceful, once again. The end of the day is almost near. My energy slowly dims. This is my life as a light bulb in the hallway of a woman’s mental hospital.