White Corridor

I don't remember when I woke up or what day it was. The only thing I remember from that moment is the alarm clock blaring mercilessly and my head hurting terribly. I rolled out of the hotel bed and shuffled towards the medicine cabinet. I opened the glass door and pulled out a small white box of painkillers. I took two – just in case – and went to wash up. The cold water did me good, and I immediately felt refreshed and rejuvenated. Wrapped only in a cotton towel, I set out to find the right outfit. The apartment I was currently in consisted of a huge bathroom, a walk-in closet/bedroom, and a large living room. I headed for the closet and opened the massive black wardrobe that took up one wall. I browsed through the contents of the hangers, casually flipping through them. Finally, after pulling out three, I went into the living room. All the windows were covered with thick curtains, and being closer to the white light switch on the wall, I turned on the light instead of opening the windows. I threw my suit and accessories on the leather sofa. Next to the sofa stood a small cabinet with three drawers. Without knowing why, I opened one of them and, to my surprise, found clean underwear, which I quickly put on. I also put on the rest of my outfit, as well as freshly polished black shoes, which I found in a box hidden behind one of the curtains. Again, some inexplicable force compelled me to check this very spot. I remembered the large mirror in the corner of the bedroom. I hurried there to see how I looked in my new outfit. Reflected in the mirror was the silhouette of a man in his forties, with slightly graying hair and a handsome, tanned face. It wasn't my face, at least not as I remembered it from before the dream, but that didn't matter anymore. I was wearing a light brown coat with a large, dark brown faux fur collar. My shirt was off-white, and my tie had a subtle gray pattern. It occurred to me that I'd always wanted to be like that. Handsome, in expensive designer clothes, in an extravagant five-star hotel. But that didn't matter anymore. I went out into the lobby. All I remembered was that the floor was covered in red carpet and that it was very hot. Far too hot. I descended the escalator to the ground floor, passed the reception desk, and stepped outside through the spiral doors. A gust of cold, even icy wind hit me, and snow slammed mercilessly against my face. As I expected, a black car was parked in front of the hotel. An exceptionally ugly driver was waiting, opening the door and gesturing for me to take a seat in the backseat. I remember wanting to remind him that he was dressed like an idiot.But I stopped myself just in time and got in, and he slammed the door and took the driver's seat. The car started moving, and, expecting to find a black sports bag under the seat with the contents I already knew, I reached in and was not disappointed. When we arrived, the driver turned his face, riddled with festering pimples (a sudden epiphany came over me, and I knew they'd been laughing at him at school) and said in his low, raspy voice, "Have a nice day." After a moment, he opened the door for me, took my bag, and left without saying goodbye or watching him drive away. I was about 10 meters from the 156-story Crowell Company building. I stopped in front of the glass doors leading inside, waiting for the upscale call girl (and again, I had no idea how I knew who she was...) to pass, then I went inside. The bag was pressing against my shoulder, so I quickened my pace even further as I walked toward the elevator. After a moment's wait, the doors opened with a hiss reminiscent of the sound of spaceship airlocks closing. Once inside, I pressed the button for floor 156. As the elevator ascended, I discovered a pack of Marlboros in one of my coat pockets. I opened it and pulled out a cigarette and lighter. I inhaled the carcinogenic smoke. But I knew I wouldn't die of cancer anyway. I couldn't. I put the lighter back in the box and put it in my pocket. The elevator had just reached its destination, and the doors hissed open again. I strode confidently down a long corridor with white walls to the door at the end, which I kicked open. I saw an elongated table, around which sat five men, mouths agape. One of them pointedly remarked that smoking was forbidden, and I replied, "I know." At that moment, I pulled a gun from my bag and opened fire. No one paid me any attention. No one returned home. No one fed the fish. No one patted their children's heads. No one fucked their wife or the hotel whore. And I stood there for a moment, watching them die in agony. Rest in peace. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. I never returned to the hotel. You might ask why? I could tell you that the voice that told me to take the lives of five people also told me to do the next thing. I walked to the large window and smashed the glass with my rifle butt. I looked back at the corpses, drenched in their own blood, and then down. I'll never know why it happened this way. I never jumped from that window on the 156th floor either. I didn't make it. The door burst open, and those who fell through opened fire without hesitation. I have to tell you, I felt no pain. I didn't really feel anything except the persistent question that screamed inside my mind at that moment: What will happen to me now? But that doesn't matter now because who cares?..

"Fuck?" Dennis cursed as he saw the Game Over message on the screen. He threw his headphones against the wall and turned off the game.

"Fucking counter-terrorism?" he added, standing up...