7-1-4-9-3

A man looked around uneasily, his eyebrows were raised and his eyes wide as he continued to gawk at the narrow hallway he was in. The walls were a harsh yellow, so vivid was the color that the man swore he smelled urine. The only thing that broke up the constant yellow of the wall was a painting, it was simple: white with a black dot. Across from that painting was another, black with a white dot, the paintings existed solely to cancel one another out, the man thought. He took a deep breath and choked a little, while he wasn't paying attention, the walls developed water stains. The chair creaked as he shifted and turned towards the receptionist. “H-how long will it be?” He called out to her across the rows of empty seats. She was the only other person in the room, she was the guardian of the doors. Aside from the entrance at the other end of the hall, the receptionist guarded two doors, one on each side of her, he had no idea which door he was going to enter when the time came. He adjusted his satin blue tie, it was a little crumpled, and he had tied it too tightly so swallowing hurt. When she didn't respond, he looked down to his shoes, they shined and reflected the flickering lights, but beyond his shoes was the was multi-coloured carpet hell, brown, black, and yellow swirls all throughout, the kind of carpet that hides stains very well by looking as if someone puked on it.

After sitting in silence for a few moments, the receptionist finally cleared her throat and looked at him. "Excuse me, what was your question?" Her mouth hung open a little as she called out to him, she wore cat-eye glasses that when the lights flickered, gave off a demonic shadow. 

The man straightened his back as he turned to her, “How long will it be?” His voice was louder as he spoke.

 Her head tilted and her eyes wandered as she thought to herself, “Another five minutes.” She answered, giving a long pause as if it had special meaning. Fingernails clacked on the desk, causing his hair to stand up on the back of his neck as he looked at her. Turning away, he looked toward the painting: the black was in the center still, though it had grew in size since he last saw it, no longer a dot it morphed, nearly shrowding the white completely; he shook his head and insisted it was nothing. Instead he decided to count to pass the time, the flickers - he figured - were seconds. Three hundred flickers, and if she hasn't called him yet he'll ask again. A buzzing sound, and the lights remained on, keeping the light. His mouth twitched into a smile and he resigned himself to counting: one mississippi, two mississippi...

...

 Buzzing, clacking, he could hear a faint scratching, he slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes - he had lost count. He slowly counted again, the building groaned, surely enough time had passed. His eyes opened with sudden clarity. “Now?” His voice grew impatient.

 The same head tilt, the same glare, the same open mouth. With the flair reserved for a play, she pressed a button on the speaker. "Can we send him in now?" She spoke into it. There was no answer, instead she waved him over. “Closer,” She whispered. He leaned over the desk, imbalanced as he tried to get as close as he could. She wore a red lipstick and he could smell the perfume on her, it wasn't very pleasant, a mix of different odors. The light gave her skin a yellow color, he thought to himself as they stared in silence. Before he could react, she grabbed his tie and yanked him, so their noses were touching. "You'll be let in, when I say you can be let in, all right?" She whispered to him.

 “O-okay!” The man choked out.

She let go of his tie and pressed her finger on his bottom lip, "Now be good boy and don't bug me anymore." She coaxed sweetly, her eyes remained fixed on his, piercing what must have been his soul.

The door to the left of them opened and a woman in a black veil and suit walked out, she made no inclination that she saw either of them as she walked to the door on the right of the receptionist.

“Oh Mister, you can go in now.” The receptionist's voice had changed, now she spoke with sultry low tone that had a hint of sweetness. Her eyes no longer the despising, burning glare.

He simply nodded and walked to the door, his hand on the knob, shaking, the knob felt slippery in his palm. He turned and entered the room, the receptionist watching him.

-

 “What brings you here today?” The voice behind the desk asked. He was an overweight man, he had a bald head that looked lumpy in the dim light.

“I wanted to talk about-” He began to speak. The man at the desk held up a finger, silencing him.

 “We must introduce ourselves. I need to know what file I'm looking at. First off, I'm Georgio Atanasiji.” He declared as he held a hand out, the man shook it. Georgio pulled away his arm and the man was left holding a prosthetic hand, he gasped and let go off it, and it made a thud when it touched the floor. Georgio laughed heartily, “Just an old joke my boy.” He pulled the sleeve revealing his actual hand. “And I know your name and your file.” The light flickered off for several seconds. “Are you ready?” Georgio's voice boomed and the room echoed his voice, Ready? ready? ready?

 The man stared at him. “Ready?” he repeated. He attempted to take a deep breath, but he felt constricted, damn tie. Instead, he twitched, then shook, his body twisting and he contorted as he collapsed to the floor.

 “What's wrong?” Georgio called out. “You've been so impatient to come here and now you're rejecting death? Rejecting me?” He gave a hearty laugh, “Was this not what you wanted?” Georgio teased as he stood up.

 The man started at Georgio. He seemed much bigger now, if that was possible.The man held his hand to his mouth, suppressing a coughing fit. One hand held his mouth while the other fiddled with his tie.

 “You think that's all that's keeping you from breathing?” Georgio cackled as he watched from above.

 The man looked up at him, he felt weighed down, the tie, he managed to untie it and tore it off, yet he felt just as constricted. The man ripped the buttons off his shirt, fighting to get it off him. On his chest, a dark red blot was forming and growing. He let out a shriek and began crawling away, away from Georgio, away from death. He hit an obstacle, a pair of legs. He looked up, The receptionist leaned down, grabbing his ear with one hand, her other hand rested on his chest.

 “The poor baby, he knows it's going to end, he knows his own mortality. Too bad he couldn't have put that to use earlier in his life, hmm?” She cackled.

 “In an office you lived, and in an office you'll die.” The man whispered to himself as he stared, paralyzed.

 “Oh did an ex-lover tell you that?” The receptionist grinned as she continued, “Being married to the job sure kills you, inside and out.”

 Georgio glanced at her, silent. He took a step and the building creaked and groaned every step. The lights flickered and after every second in the dark, Georgio was closer to the man. The floor began to shake underneath his feet.

“W-what is my name.” He blurted out.

 Georgio stopped walking and his face contorted. "What?" The receptionist looked as perplexed.

 “My name, I remember my badge number. 7-1-4-9-3. But I don't remember my name.” The man's face, he had tears streaming down his cheek as he spoke.

 “Your name...” Georgio smiled, “John.” He laughed and continued to walk towards him. The shadows pulled John into the ground, wrapping around him, hugging him, edging to cover him completely.

 The receptionist smiled as John was being drowned in darkness, her red lips, one of the last things John saw, before he was completely swallowed.

-

Footsteps were heard through the building, a groan, a flicker. A man appeared before the receptionist. “Hi. I have a...” He pulled out a folded letter, crinkled in his hands.

 The receptionist looked at him, she had the most perfect red lips, he thought to himself, her mouth hung open before she spoke. “Please have a seat.” She sung, to him she sounded like jazz singer, too beautiful to be some secretary in a place like this. His eyes looked up, to someone past her; a man was pouring himself coffee, he wore a buttoned up shirt, that was wrinkled and torn open, a tie left undone, and a pair of pants, shred at the legs, he walked to the room on the right and opened the door. The woman coughed and the man looked at her again, she glanced at the seats. He turned to the chairs, lined up on both sides of the hallway, both had a blank canvas, though one was all white and one was all black. Must be some yin-yang bullshit, the man thought and sat down, facing the all black painting. The lights flickered, and he blinked, a white speck was in the center of the painting.

"I must be losing it." He said to himself.