Madness

Like Clockwork (Orange)

The sound of my echoing footsteps grated against the sterile silence, reverberating against every wall of the corridor. It was loud enough to be uncomfortable, emphasizing the emptiness of this destitute wasteland and drowning any semblance of an internal thought in a sea of solemn footfalls.

Fuck this linoleum floor.

I advanced through the clinically impoverished building, walking the exhausted halls for the final time. The LED lights that were systematically installed every few feet above me hummed softly, draining the last bit of resolve the structure had. The noise should have been inaudible if it wasn't for the incessant  absence of any indication of life.

Everything was white. The floors, the walls, the ceilings. The doors leading into the monotonously identical, square rooms.

I have been tempted to ask who was paid to create this intolerably drab, sad excuse of modern minimalism so I can put a 9mm into their frontal lobe.

Jackson Pollack their brain matter onto the blank walls and call it fine art.

I pictured the unfolding sequence of events, noting the outcome's morbid ability to bring an abstract, aesthetically pleasing spray of color into the otherwise boring scenery.

The red would contrast with the white.
The pink would add depth.
The clotting, texture.

The original interior designer would be immortalized through a divisional pictorialization of the mind, constructed from the same dendrites and axons used to envision the canvas that was now drenched with the congealing mural.
Arguably, they should thank me; my reconceptualization of their work would allow them to achieve artistic greatness otherwise unobtainable as evidenced by their palette of choice.
Amateur.

I reached the (very white) lobby that contained a series of clear chairs with matching, and equally as depressing, limpid tables. A sad, drooping indoor palm plant leaned against a corner on the far side of the area, wheezing the slightest bit of sentience and color into the room.
Impossibly large glass panels served as the front doors; both were meticulously scrubbed of dirt, streaks, god forbid, fingerprints.

OCD gets both treated and induced in this shit hole.

The doors revealed a day that was heavy and grey, with the clouds smothering the sky in a wash of melancholy.
Well fitting for my mood.

I reached into my jacket and felt the familiar cool box of my phone. Pulling it out, I half heartedly patted down my pockets in a futile attempt to search for my headphones, eventually coming up empty handed. Sighing, I numbly realized they had a stranglehold on my phone, wrapped orderly around the device with each line of wire parallel to the last.
This place really was getting to me.
If I wasn't neurotic before, I definitely was now.
I unwrapped the wire, shoved the buds into both ears, and pushed the front doors open without turning to say goodbye or,

more appropriately,

fuck off to the grossly overweight bitch of a receptionist that greeted every patient who dared to pass through her vacant foyer with a condescending snort, as if she wasn't a fat glorified secretary.
I rolled my eyes and cracked a smile at my cynical conceptualization.

I stepped outside and was met with a gust of brisk, pre-autumn wind. The atmosphere was thick with sorrow, dripping with the potential to pour.
Thankfully it was only a spattered mist of cold droplets at the moment. I hadn't checked the forecast for this morning and was poorly prepared for any inclement weather, making the prospect of rain highly unpalatable.
I soured at the thought of damp socks, the imaginary abrasiveness making the flesh around my ankles writhe in discomfort.
I walked through the parking lot and down the rows of abandoned cars, each dark with the lack of an occupant. I finally reached the most remote corner of the blacktop where a solemn motor could be discerned amongst the lifeless vehicles. The engine served as the heartbeat for a red, rusted pickup whose headlights only dimly cut through the slate air.