I'm making this up as I go along :)
The room smelled of cigarettes, bodies and something oddly chemical, like hospital corridors. Regan Anderson awoke with an awful throbbing sensation in his left arm, which felt like the aftermath of an injection. That was how They made him sleep, now that the nights and days were one. Beyond the thick metal bars on the small "window" was a sheet of glass that had been painted with a thick coat of matte black paint. Faded curtains, which had once been black but were now a murky grey, hung over the bars and black-painted glass. The glass that Regan assumed had once covered the face of the clock on the wall had been pulled off roughly, jagged shards still glinting at the face's edge. The face of the clock was splattered with the dull red-brown stains of what looked like blood. The hands had been removed, and new ones had been drawn on; crude and basic arrows, perpetually poised at five minutes past six.
Regan ran his right hand along his left arm. The bandages had been changed, the rough skin of his palm met stiff white bandages wrapped tightly from his wrist to just below his elbow. This was the same on his other arm. His left arm was still ticking with an extra annoying pulse where he'd been stuck with a needle to put him to sleep. The sheets tangled around his slender body were lightly speckled with blood. Leaning over and reaching under the bed with one stiff, aching arm and scarred hand, Regan unearthed a hypodermic syringe from the dark, seldom-explored area between the floor and the bed. Regan supposed that this was the needle They had used to put him to sleep.
As he began to untangle himself from the blood-dotted sheets, Regan heard heavy footsteps outside the door. The door, the floor and the walls were completely papered in stained newspapers instead of paint or wallpaper. Some of the stains were yellow-brown, others veered into the tints of bloody maroons, dark reds, and rusted autumn browns. It made him wonder what was going to happen to him, but the pills and shots stopped him from dwelling on it too much, most of the time.
The newspaper-plastered door swung open with a screeching of rusted bolts being pulled out of tight metal loops.
"197835, remember that number." a low, hoarse voice ordered.