Clock Out

The clock hits 9am.

I meet my day with the familiar drone. The buzzes and whirs of clockwork movement encompasses me on all sides, the tipping and tapping of rhythmic typing provides the metronome to which I think. I sit at my desk, staring at the pulsating screen in front of me awaiting another day's influx of customer inquiries and complaints. I scour through the subjects of the first set of emails on my screen, categorizing them by the pre-prepared responses that I use to reply to them. I slowly read down:

Refund.

Refund.

Pricing quotes.

Reboot.

I sit back and sigh, trying to displace the fatigue with a deep stretch. My toes and fingers submitting to the parameters of my cubicle work space, bending inward to allow as deep a stretch as I can within my box. However I am left unsatisfied, unable to fully branch out. I look at the screen again, I stare at it with increasing apathy unable to will myself to begin the tedious nature of replying to the messages on my screen.

I lean back into my chair again and take a moment, looking around the workplace around me. I can’t see much due to the confines of the cubicle, most of my visibility blocked by an ever-present wall of grey. Yet I am still able to just about peer over the top of the walls, giving me a scope of the entire office. I scan across making out only the tops of the heads of those around me, at the far side of the office I am able to see the Receptionist at her desk. She is sitting sullenly staring at her computer, holding a phone to the side of her head. She relentlessly chews the gum in her mouth, producing what I can imagine to be a monotonous sound of slapping meat to the poor soul of the other end of the line. My gaze shifts over to the corridor next to the receptionist's desk. The corridor leads away from the office to the outside of the building, looking down the corridor it seems impossibly long. At the far end there is the fire exit door, above it a small green light that hums softly overhead illuminating the end of the corridor in a gentle green glow.

A ping from my screen makes me look down again and re-enter the grey of my box, I see another email appear joining the list. Another refund. I sigh and begin to chip away at the influx of work that arrives. Next to me through the wall I hear my co-worker moving around. His movements are slow and deliberate that reverberate through to my cubicle, sending shockwaves of movement through my desk. He shuffles around as he fumbles around looking for something. I know what he’s looking for, every day at a point he deems necessary he takes a small break and watches programs on a small iPad he keeps tucked away in his desk. Lately he has had a liking for nature documentaries, there is something about watching animals being torn apart that seems to really tickle his fancy. I hear the familiar crinkle of a Twix as he presses play.

Alas, the baby Impala was just too slow. Clutched in the jaws of the baboon it calls out for its mother, yet it’s a call in vain. The Baboons, unperturbed by the cries of the Impala, begin to feast. Tearing apart the small animal piece by piece. They drive themselves into a frenzy consuming what part of the Impala they get to, all the while the Impala screams on.

The walls of the cubicle begin to close around me. My breathing becomes heavy and more frequent. I need to get up. I need to get out of this box. I stand up quickly and leave my cubicle, I just need to pace around the office, do a lap or two to clear my head and then I can get on with my work. That’s what I'll say if they ask. I leave my cubicle and begin walking through the labyrinth of workstations, weaving in and out, each turn met with the ring of incoming work to the grunts tapping away within their stations. I twist mindlessly through the maze, never meeting the gaze of the faceless individuals that I pass. Left. Right. Right. Left. Right. Left.

I break free from the maze and enter the three meter wide space that encompasses the cubicles in the centre of the office. Three meters feels like a mile in comparison to the winding alleyways. Ahead of me, a lady pushes a trolley stacked high with paper and parcels. No doubt on her way to the copy room, to scan the influx of reports. Her light blue jumper catches my eye as she passes me, we make eye contact and she smiles gently. I smile back warmly and she continues past me. The interaction was small but it was enough to settle the flurry inside my head. I breathe out deeply and take in the space around me, finally being able to stretch. Suddenly I realise where I am, the maze had taken me out at the receptionist's desk. The sound of relentless wet slapping slowly tunes to my ears as she says, “where are you going?”

I turn and meet the eyes of Cerberus. “I’m just stretching my legs.”

She squints, “Well, are they stretched?”

“Yes.” I turn around and begin a slow trudge toward the entrance of the maze, I feel something knock my foot as I walk. I look down and see a loan parcel laying on the ground. It must have fallen from the pile on the trolley. I pick it up and wave it to the Receptionist, she responds with a dead eyed stare. I suppose I'll take it to the copy room then.

I begin to follow the path the Trolley Lady took, relishing the idea of playing out this small task for as long as I can. The copy room is down another corridor that leads from the office deeper into the building, I reach the beginning of the corridor and look down. It seems to stretch on endlessly, due to the immense size of the building parts are often left unoccupied. The lights down the far end of the corridor were off, leaving the end of the corridor in complete darkness, as though it led into the abyss itself. I begin to walk down, taking note of the doors that I pass. I knew the copy room was down here to the right, but I'm not sure entirely where.

These spiders remain hidden, tucked away behind the safety of their manufactured door. Under the cover of darkness they only emerge briefly, to snatch up their victim.

I delve further and further down the corridor, the air becomes heavy and a sharp cold creeps across my face and arms. I start to feel uneasy as the light begins to fade from the walls around me, the void of blackness ahead of me slowly swallowing the corridor. A fleeting thought of turning back and running as fast as I can back down the corridor. I push it down and shake away the childish fear, searching for the door.

The cricket unaware of the danger that is imminent, shuffles slowly across the ground. He lightly trots forward, slowly inching forward toward the trapdoor. Beneath, the spider waits patiently. His legs tucked up tight ready to pounce.

Eventually the dim light reveals a labelled door to my right, I look up and see the faded letters and read ‘COPY ROOM’. I pause, I am suddenly washed with a wave of foreboding. I can’t put a finger on why. I reach down slowly and grab the handle.

The cricket moves slowly, tickling the edge of the trapdoor. Yet the spider still waits.

I push down the handle and open the door.

The cricket pauses. Out of the darkness the spider strikes.

The door opens and I swallow my scream as I am met with a deep wave of red. All I can see is the immeasurable sheen of intense crimson, the walls and ceiling glossy and dripping with blood. I take a step back as the pool of red begins to trickle around my shoes. My eyes adjust to the onslaught of colour and in the centre the Trolley Lady lies. Her blue jumper now a deep crimson as a steady dribble of blood leaks from gashes in her neck. Her eyes, once possessing a welcoming warmth, were now wide and lifeless. The echo of horror etched across her blood-strewn face. I catch the vomit in my throat as I turn to run, my heart beating through my chest. I dare not look back, my vision focused solely on the light ahead of me. The thunder of my footsteps echoing down the corridor alongside me, as I will myself toward safety.

The clock hits 9am.

I am standing outside the singular door that separates the grunts from the boss’s office. I stare at the wood grain of the door, running my finger gently down the smooth indentations. It confirms what I already knew, its fiberglass. The events of yesterday flow in and out of my thoughts, no matter my efforts to push them deep into the recesses of my mind. Flashes of red and hollow eyes, wide and lifeless, burst violently before me with every blink of my eyes. Directly to my right is the corridor that leads into the building, I follow it down with my eyes until I meet the dark abyss at the end. I hear in my mind's eye the wheels of the gurney turning slowly. The image of the Trolley Lady’s lone hand falling from the sheet that lay over her, only to caress the carpet beneath her limply as the trolley rolled on. I take a deep breath and enter the office.

The Boss looks up from his desk and greets me with a smile, the office is cold and precise. Everything has its place, each object used to convey the illusion of purpose. Positioned perfectly, like a display at a furniture showroom. Modelled to be warm and inviting, but if you look too close you see a hollowed out computer monitor and plastic plants. He beckons me to sit down at the lone chair in front of his desk. I sit and face him, taking in the opportunity to inspect his features up close. The man matched the décor to an unsettling degree, his features felt plastic and his eyes held no life. He smiled a corporate smile, precise and deliberate. All parts of his face conducting in a practised, well formulated manner. All perched atop his smooth packaged shirt. Crisp and clean, like he had been taken fresh out of his cardboard box.

“I hope you are feeling better today after yesterday's incident,” he says.

I lie, replying with a nod.

He continues, his expression unchanging from that cold smile. “Such workplace accidents are few and far between, rest assured we will be doing what we can to make sure it does not occur again.”

“Accident…” I reply with almost a whisper, shock grasping my vocal chords.

“Yes, accident. It seems some members of staff are inadequately trained in regards to some office equipment. New training will be implemented from next week.” He responds, his tone and expression unwavering from that sickly smile.

“What happened was not an accident. The woman had been murdered.” I say softly in disbelief.

He chuckles. My blood begins to boil, my fist tightens on my lap sending my knuckles a chalky white. He continues, his face still placed in that processed smile. “What took place was nothing more than an unfortunate mishap due to inadequate training. Such an emotional response is normal for what you have witnessed, however it is unfounded and wildly speculatory. I understand you may be feeling affected by a degree of trauma, unfortunately we cannot send you home as we are already short staffed. If you like I can set up a meeting with human resources which will-”

“-Tell me how the fuck a copy machine is able to slice open somebodies neck! This is absurd! We need to close this place, she was clearly attacked!” I bark, anger flushing my cheeks.

His smile falls, yet his face remains stoic, no ounce of emotion present in his features. “I understand you’re upset, and your concern is noted. However we can not simply shut down the entirety of the business solely on your speculation.” His eyes remain dull, the light reflecting softly off of them. Like the eyes of a porcelain doll. “Rest assured further inquiries will be held to the cause of this-” He pauses, “-Incident, and the manufacturers of the copy machine will be notified. I’m afraid this concludes our meeting. I’m aware you have tasks that you still need to attend to.”

I sit stunned, staring at the man in front of me, incapable of formulating any response. Instead I stand up slowly and begin to leave.

The polar bear slips slightly, his leg snapping away another piece from the small block that he is standing on, and he watches it float away solemnly. The remaining ice soon won’t be large enough to take his weight. Miles from any landmass, he will soon be plunged into the sea to swim as far as he can for as long as he can. For now he sits, floating alone, surrounded by the gentle waves.

I close the door behind me and breathe, unable to process what I had just heard. The memory of the copy lady swings back into my mind, and I take a look again down the corridor that delves deeper into the building. I look right and my heart stops in my chest, a chill runs through my veins. At the end of the corridor just before the black abyss stands a figure. A silhouette of a figure superimposed over the impossible blackness. It is standing still as a statue facing me. I freeze, facing the figure. The figure moves backward, melding into the darkness behind it, and disappears from sight.

The clock hits 9am

In the deep centre of my mind there is a scream. A violent, chaotic scream that perpetuates over and over. The scream is the lightning rod to which all of my anger, all of my fear, all of my frustration connect. The scream manifests to images and images manifest to thoughts. Thoughts of destruction and violence. To stand up and tear away the paper walls of the prison that I cannot seem to break through. To show, in a final swan song, that I wont be kept by the chain links I had made. A fist through the screen, the keyboard into the desk. With ferocious malice, over and over, again and again. Whaling the keyboard while I am showered with falling keys. To collapse the walls of the cubicle through sheer strength, hands ripping at the sides of the wall. To expand my explosion to the desks and cubicles around me, like a shattering shockwave of energy.

The computer bings as another email arrives in the mailbox, I am staring sullenly at the cold grey wall in front of me. My girlfriend is on the speaker phone, she is reading out another letter from the energy company. She tells me how much the bill is overdue, that soon they will be forced to cut the power and we will have no electricity. I can hear the emotion in her voice, I can hear her stress as she tallies up the cost. Her reluctance to add this month's rent as though if she avoided saying it then perhaps it might cease to exist. Schrodinger’s rent. She finalises it all with a stab at optimism, stating if she put more hours in at the restaurant then our paychecks combined might suffice to get us by for the time being. I interject with the occasional affirmative, letting her know that I’m still on the line. Yet I’m not present, I feel numb. The grey walls around me feel especially imposing today, I feel entombed. I remember the bing from my mailbox and a shot of life is stabbed into me, I look over at it quickly. I read the first line of the email:

"We regret to inform you that your application was unsuccessful-"

My heart sinks again, and the weight seeps back into my muscles as I sag into my chair. My girlfriend tells me she has to go and hangs up. I sigh deeply and sit back up. I look over the cubicle wall at the gentle green light down the fire exit corridor. I sit and stare, just vaguely being able to make out the small man running through the shining white rectangle. The light of it softly pulsates, captivating my eye even from this distance. A warm beacon cutting through the dim lighting of the corridor.

All of a sudden I feel uneasy, a strange sensation runs over my skin making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My attention is diverted to the reception desk next to the exit corridor. The Receptionist is sitting, staring at me. Her eyes are unblinking and her face is devoid of any emotion. She continues to stare at me unflinchingly, her body and face still, except for the rhythmic slapping of her gum chewing.

Slap

Slap

SLAP!

The clock hits 5pm.

I’m illuminated by the light of my screen. The office is now dark, the lights had been turned off gradually over the hour to signify the end of the working day. Although it occurs to me that I hadn't heard many people leaving. The office has been generally quieter of late, the combined drone of endless typing has diminished to separated pockets within the cubicle maze. Even now the office is silent. The realization hits me, the office is silent. I double check the time on my computer screen, 5pm. Even now the office should be filled with the bustle of leaving staff. The more I dwell on the silence, the more it begins to unnerve me.

I turn off my computer and stand up, I collect the forms for the receptionists desk and begin to leave my cubicle. I pass the cubicle of my heavy-set co worker and pause. I realise I haven’t been disturbed by the onslaught of his smell for a couple of days. I curiously peek inside, to see if there was any indicator of his presence throughout the day. I look around his cubicle, yet I see nothing to suggest he has been here. I go to leave and pause, I catch something unusual on his chair and swivel it around to face me. The whole seat is covered in spots of what appears to be blood. I back out of his cubicle quickly, my breathing starts to get heavier. I begin walking through the cubicle maze toward the reception desk. I look through each of the cubicles as I pass and begin to notice the presence of blood spatters in each of them. I increase my pace, my heart pounding in my chest. The blood seems to be getting more prominent. I start to jog, I see blood coating the chairs. I speed up, I see blood across the desks. I begin to run full sprint, I see blood splattered all along the cubicle walls.

I break free of the maze and collide with the receptionist's desk, her desk is coated with a shimmering coat of thick dripping blood. I gasp in terror, landing on my back with my arms outstretched. Feeling something warm begin to slowly creep up my back, I realise that the carpet is wet. I sit up and look down at my shirt, the crisp white now coated in a dark crimson. I am overwhelmed with horror as I realise that the carpet is soaked with blood, I look up and see the walls and ceiling of the office dripping a deep red.

I scramble to my feet, and circle around. My heart pounds against my ribcage like a steady drum. I see a light behind the blinds of the boss’s office. I sprint toward it, my breathing loud and heavy, I slam open the door to his office and let out a gasping scream. Like the rest of the office the interior is coated with the dark sheen of red. Blood coats the entire room, as it slowly runs down the walls and drips steadily from the ceiling. The Boss is sitting in his chair in the centre of the office, his eyes blank and vacant like they were in life. His throat slashed horizontally, as a steady flow dribbles from the wound.

I back out slowly, my hand clasping my chest, willing my heart to not break through my ribcage. I feel a sudden chill and I turn to my right toward the corridor that leads deeper into the building. I freeze as I see the shadowy silhouette of the figure emerge from the darkness, clasped in its right hand, a long gleaming knife. It begins to run toward me and my blood runs cold, I stifle another scream and turn to run. I hear the figure behind me picking up pace, the steady thump of footprints becoming louder and louder. I run as fast as my feet will carry me, I have to make it to the fire exit.

The rabbit spots the hungry eyes of the fox through the long grass, it turns and sprints as the fox begins its chase.

I make it to the edge of the cubicle maze, I have to go back through it in order to make it to the fire exit corridor. I begin weaving through the walls, my breathing heavy as I dash in and out. Slamming into the sides as I run. Hearing the footsteps of the figure behind me, closing in the distance, I begin to charge the walls instead of weaving, breaking through the walls like a charging locomotive. I break through the maze, and dash toward the corridor.

The rabbit’s eye catches sight of his burrow in the distance, he knows it’ll be his only chance of making it. He changes direction and darts. The fox, close behind.

I sprint down the corridor, my chest rattles with each breath. Willing the air into my lungs to drive my legs forward. Behind me I hear it, closer and closer. The speed of the figure is greater than my own. The light of the fire exit gleams bright, the hot green glow blasts the corridor in a pulsating rhythm.

The rabbit runs blindly, so close he can smell the dirt of his home. The fox, only inches away, closes in. His teeth bared, the hot stink of his breath rustling the hairs of the rabbit's tail.

I am only feet away now, the light so impossibly green it is blinding. My arms reach out, fingers aimed toward the door.

The fox opens wide, ready to bite.

My fingers clasp the handle and the door slams open, and I dive out. I close my eyes, as I am swallowed by a bright rectangle of bright light.

The rabbit scurries down the burrow to safety.

I am safe. I am free.