Corridor of Rooms

GraybeardGhost

Well-known member
#1
So I'm runnin' down this corridor, only it ain't a corridor, see, it's rooms: small, dingy offices with desks and chairs—that heavy oak stuff like we had before the war, y'know?—little offices all linked together with connectin' doors, one after the other. And I'm runnin' through these rooms, and it's hard to see with the stained yellow blinds pulled down, but it looks like nobody's been in here for a real long time, from the heavy coat of dust everywhere. It's so dirty but so pristine—pure, virgin filth—no footprints anywhere, not even a finger swipe in the dust, like the people all left and forgot this place was even here.

Room after room, door after door, throwin' 'em open and slammin' 'em behind me, and each one's got a number painted on the glass—that frosted glass so you can't see what's on the other side or who's doin' what to who—and the numbers, see, they keep gettin' bigger and bigger as I run from one room to the next. Room after room, number after number, hundreds of them flyin' past, and I want to stop and go through a desk or a file cabinet to see if somebody maybe left somethin' behind, like some dough, or a rod, or a matchbook, somethin' I can use, a clue. But there's no time because they're right behind me, chasin' me, pushin' me forward always through the next door, always into the next room.

Door after door—thousands of 'em now—and still I'm runnin', and my heart's beatin' hard in my chest and my legs are achin' and I'm all but chokin' on the dust. Room after room, number after number, always growin', pilin' up, addin', multiplyin', til finally I'm in the last room, at the last door. And I've seen so many doors by now, so many numbers, that I can't even read 'em anymore—just a dirty smudge on dirty glass in a dirty place. But I know this is the last room—it has to be—'cause there's daylight shinin' through the glass in the door, and I ain't seen daylight in so long, and I'm so damn tired of runnin'. But I can't stop here, 'cause they're still behind me, still comin' hard and fast, still chasin' me, the rooms, the numbers, so I throw open the door and step through and . . .

Nothin'.

Nothin' but blue skies, fresh air, and a long way down. And I can see forever as I fall, and all my tomorrows look just like every yesterday I ever saw—the same furniture, the same dust—and I wonder . . . What does it mean?
 
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