Excerpt: Origin by Emilia J. Rutigliano

“NIIIIICCCCEEEE!”  Alexandra bellowed stepping into the “apartment.”  This was really something.

“You’re impressed?”  The svelte blonde laughed, allowing Alexandra to walk through and take it all in.

“Had I known it would be like this, I would have admitted myself into a psychiatric facility a long time ago!”  Alex was making conversation.  Her mind was too busy assessing the place.

She was standing in a two-story duplex.  It was a “New” building, on the West side of New York City overlooking the Hudson River.  The building was entirely made of glass.  Inside the apartment, everything was appointed in tones and textures of white.  

“It’s not too late you know.”  The blonde answered, using exactly the same tone.  “I have friends who run sanatoria and “well-centers” in Connecticut …  and in California, by the surf.  There’s one in Los Cabos too.  They are all luxurious.  Plenty of fancy things and gardens and pool-sides.  I could make arrangements.”

“I’m soooo in!”  Alexandra admitted.  “Where do I sign up, Doc!?  Do I lie on this couch?”   She asked, pointing toward a white, tufted, leather couch.  Alex was trying to analyze how someone was brilliant enough to design it.  It was definitely modern, but  it still had enough “old world” comfort that you could just lounge on it to read or watch TV.  And this leather... it was just... soft, and supple and inviting.  “Wait did we get a diagnosis on me already?”

“Well sure, didn’t your friends already decide that you are depressed and need to be cured?  Why else would you be seeing a psychiatrist?”  The blonde asked, laughing.  She came into the sitting area, and sat down in one of the white lounge chairs. 

“Right.”  Alex agreed.  She sat in the chair opposite her, although they were both facing the outside.  The Hudson River was playing with the sunlight and the water was bouncing the rays in such a way that it looked like it was generating the sparkles.  “So, uhm... how do we do this?”

“Cure you?”  The blonde was laughing, and Alex smirked at her, rolling her eyes. 

“Relax.  This is for you Alexandra. There is no pattern.  Want some water or iced tea or something?”

“Water would be great.”  Alexandra said, though her mind was more into photographing this room. 

The details were extraordinary.  The room was “albino”.  That seemed to be its strength.  Someone specifically made it -- not devoid of color, really -- but purposefully white. It was rich in its whiteness.  The walls, and there were many, although, technically, the whole place was “open”, were of different materials.  Some walls were Venetian or marbleized stucco.  Some were pure Carrera marble, with just the veining showing through.  Some were sueded, and some had mother-of-pearl wall coverings.  But everything was white.  Not cream... but white.  And nothing was in contrast with anything.  The hard and soft surfaces all melded. 

The ceiling-to-floor windows had no treatments. Large, ornate “boxes” that served as moldings (with mother-of-pearl textures) obviously held shades that could be let down by means of a remote control.  There was one, enormous, Chihuly chandelier.  It was white, too. 

“Do all psychiatrists’ offices look like this?”  Alexandra joked, sort of.

“No, actually.  I’m trying a new experiment with you.”  The good doctor said. 

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