The Backrooms: A Fading Memory

I'm not very fast. At all. You think being an anchor for the middle school track team would give you at least a bit of speed, but nope. Maybe it's not the speed itself but the fact I easily run out of breath. Point being, that by the time I entered high school I had accepted my weakness and utilized school's weight room instead.

Smelly, falling apart, and old, but within 3 years I had become decently strong.  I could easily bench  100, surpassing my coach's expectations by a long shot.. The trick was to do it three times a week before school (aka, before the wrestlers).

But I doubt no amount of bench pressing could prepare me for whatever the hell that was.

The silence in the warehouse was almost as bad as the buzzing light in those yellow walls. I might think it would all still be a dream if the puddles my Converse stepped through didn't echo off of the concrete. Not only that but a fog like thickness surrounded me, causing me to cough several times. At least I know here where the condensation came from.

The fog became so dense in one part I almost didn't see some writing at the bottom of the wall. I knelt down, being careful not to get my pants wet again and saw that it read:

The Artist Lives In Me

The Artist Dies In Me

 This could be poetic and even thought-provoking if I was in quite literally any other situation. At least I had a marker if I ended up making circles (God forbid). I continued walking.

After a while (on't ask me how long), I came to what looked like a hallway. It had all white walls and a piece of a wooden board leaning  haphazardly against the right side. In the far left corner there was asmall crate. Next to the crate? A gray door.  Finally.

I walked towards it as far as my caution would let me. When I got close enough, I knelt down, almost sitting against the door. That's what I noticed the crate, which I previously believed to be empty. Inside seemed to be a carton of some sort.  I scooted over to get a better view. 

It was a carton of orange juice. I blinked. I furrowed my eyebrows. Still orange juice.

I sat back next to the door, still as confused as ever when I heard it. I thought I was imagining it at first, but when I pressed my ear against the door I was certain. It was voices. Human voices.

Now, I'm not that stupid as to open the first door at the sign of something familiar. Not after that thing downstairs. (Un)Fortunately I didn't have to make that decision. It was made for me as the door slowly opened.