A Delve

In prison-like offices the stench of ennui was overwhelming- the monotony of tapping keys, the hum of electricity, crimson red bloodshot eyes staring blankly at a computer monitor and the stench of stale coffee permeating throughout the air- all of the senses overwhelmed with a vulgarity so complete, so utterly empowering, that the very soul of those who entered was stricken with an insurmountable dread. Here on this 27th story cell, the sun did not set. Sterile white light beat down upon the worn employees contained within its walls, driving production and prohibiting their thoughts from straying from conformity.

As Peter sat in his sweat laden chair, his mind was set on the casino. Friday evening did not come along often. His wife had come to accept that her husband had found his vice in gambling. They had never discussed the issue, but then, she had never told him of her affair with the next door neighbour.

Peter pushed the power button on his monitor and a metamorphosis struck him. Gone was all knowledge of spreadsheets and invoices, replaces by the sole desire to drown the night in hedonism.

As he walked thought the automatic doors he was struck by a breeze. It was easy to be overwhelmed by the sheer size of the structures that surrounded him. The horror dawned upon him that, were he to stand and truly survey where he was, he would be overcome by a feeling of unassailable helplessness. Indeed, he was but a needless component of this societal machine, for it would surely trot forward irrespective of his willingness to participate. Peter’s reluctance to think about this did not stop the cold sweat forming on his neck as he stood alone on the pavement- he was, for all intents and purposes, replaceable. As a tram came trundling toward him, he wondered what would happen if it ploughed into him. Maybe he would lie dead and it would continue on its path. And it agitated him that he would fade into the annals of history whilst this lump of metal would live on.

The tram came to a slow stop and he boarded- headed toward the casino.

Extravagance. It dangled from the ceiling in a myriad of colours. The chandelier reflected an endless spectrum of hues and illuminated the building with unrivalled grandeur. There was manic laughter drifting through the air, clattering of cards on tables and the smooth pouring of spirits into half-cleaned shot glasses. Peter found himself holding a half empty glass of whisky in his hand. He raised it to his mouth lethargically, letting it drip down his throat and burn ever so slightly. It wasn’t pleasant, but the pain allowed him to know with certainty that the life he had created for himself, the life which he now led, was anything but a dark dream.

He had been watching the clock for quite some time now. The hands seemed to loiter, deceptive about their constancy.
Beside him was a woman with bright red lipstick. She was partially hidden in cigarette smoke, and to Peter she appeared to be some kind of painting withered away and blurred by time. Here, in this odd coincidence, they had created a moment. The very expression worn on her face was as telling as Peter’s own reflection.

A smile. A small, simple smile. It crept on the corner of her mouth and immediately captivated Peter. She wasn’t happy, or reliving an enjoyable memory or thinking about what she would do tomorrow. It was a smile accepting the decrepit life she led, admitting that the world in her head was not compatible with the world living about her. Peter could see this in her with ghastly clarity.

From what height had they fallen? The depths in which they now writhed were mercilessly low, and the only light which they saw was their own reflection in the empty glass.