The Exit Light

Chris fancied himself a writer. Maybe that was because no one seemed to listen to him any more. He was always on the periphery of the party, now. The action no longer seemed to hold the same appeal – at least for participation. He still wrote about it, though.

Notebook under his arm, he realized that there was something vaguely poetic about walking across the dance floor, unmoved by the shifting mass surrounding him.

Of course, by the time that thought finally crystallized, he’d left the dance floor behind. In the place of its fading noise, he tried to remember the words to some song. He couldn’t remember it ever having been played at the party, and he couldn’t think of where else he could have heard it. Just my imagination. In his head, another neuron flared.

He walked on until he found the stairwell. After going up a couple of flights, he sat down on the broken heater in one of the landings, settling his notebook on his lap and pulling out his pen.

What was that song?

The door half a flight below him was pushed open, and a young couple entered, unaware of his presence. Gathering up his book, Chris made his way up the next flight, catching a last glimpse of the two of them – the girl, seductive, and the boy, lascivious.

The laughter of their supposed discretions pursued him further upwards. He’d lost track of how many floors he’d climbed when it came to him that he just wanted out. This was a thought that had never occurred to him. He didn’t even know where “out” was, but he knew that’s where he wanted to be.

He kept climbing.

Why can’t I remember that song?

Some time later, he came to a door marked simply “Mechanical Room.” Trying it, he was rewarded with a blast of stale hot air and the metallic rumble of machines. Boilers of some kind, it seemed. While passing between these, he heard the door close behind him. He walked back to try it, but the handle refused to turn. Making his way around the room, he found another door.

This one opened on a small white stairwell that went up one flight of steps and then turned abruptly to his left. The once-white-painted cinderblock walls had been covered in various messages and drawings of paint and ink. The air was rank with pot. He turned to look at the door as it closed behind him. On it were drawn flames, and, crudely, the number 666.

From up the stairs and around the corner came the sounds of people approaching. A door opened, letting their conversation in. He walked up and turned the corner.

At the top, a few steps up from where he was, two girls and four boys had entered the stairwell from a side doorway, and were walking down the steps. They grinned at him mischievously.

“Hey dude,” one of the girls said.

But he looked past them, out the other door at the top of the stair.

It let in the moonlight reflected off of snowdrifts.

Chris walked past them, nodding in acknowledgement of their greeting, and pushed the door open a bit. Then he turned and looked at the six of them, who were forming a loose circle on the landing.

“The stars are so nice tonight.”

“Yeah, man,” one of the guys said.

As he turned to walk out the door, he caught a bit more of their conversation.

“Look, guys, she’s in the corner again!”

“Man, this is such an episode of ‘Danger High’.”

Walking out under the stars, Chris began to sing softly.

“Mirrors on the ceiling,

Pink champagne on ice, and she said:

‘We are all just prisoners here,

Of our own device…’”