База данных Backrooms

В конце концов, отодвинув свою голову от экрана ноутбука, я со вздохом нажал на "Сохранить". Мой проект был завершён, и будет в конечном счете готов к публикации после одобрения кого-нибудь из стаффа. Я — всё; четыре месяца работы всё-таки в итоге окупились. Я наконец-то мог немного расслабиться. Я откинулся на спинку своего старого офисного кресла и насладился от глотка из просроченной банки колы, которая всё это время стояла у меня на столе. Знакомый, приторно сладкий вкус тёплой, карамельно-ванильной колы едва утолил жажду, накопившуюся за последние несколько часов. И я задумался, насколько же долго я не спал с начала всей этой ночи. Со страхом я взял свой телефон и, игнорируя бесконечное количество сообщений от друзей и близких, всех спрашивающих о том, как прошёл мой день или приглашающих меня пойти выпить, прочитал время, показанное на экране:

02:46

"Я не могу так дальше продолжать." — произнес я своим сонливым, разочарованным и полным отчаяния голосом. Честно говоря, это не была моя вина. To be fair, it wasn't entirely my fault. I posted that 4chan paragraph on a whim; I didn't know it'd blow up. People liked the idea and wanted more, and I didn't exactly want to leave this idea at some random blurb that I posted out of boredom. I don't want to be known for half-assed writing. I want to put actual effort into what I create. I love writing, and I especially love that something I made, even when it was short and basic, spiraled into this huge community. It can be very demanding at times, though. I love the members of the community with all my heart, but they can be rather impatient when it comes to new material. Not to mention the fact that not everyone has been very fond of the additions I've made, but I don't exactly write this stuff for those folks.

I decided that it'd be best to call it a day—or rather, a night. I shut off my laptop, staring at my reflection on the black screen. I had grown a messy, stubble-y beard. My face was scattered with zits, and the bags under my eyes were so big that I'd have to remove a few things at the airport. I closed the lid and lazily got up from my desk, followed by a squeak from my chair. I meandered over to my bedroom and prepared to flop onto my bed, but something caught my eye: a small dent in the dark wood, no bigger than an inch in diameter. I couldn't remember doing anything to cause it, so I decided to take a closer look. I ran my hand over the once smooth mahogany, but something pulled me through the floor. I fell for what seemed like forever, and I was finally met with itchy, wet carpeting.

Confused and trying to comprehend what just happened, I lifted my head off the floor and looked around, only to find old, mono-yellow wallpaper, the stink of moist carpet, and the vexatious hum-buzz of fluorescent lighting. I recognized it almost immediately. I knew it all too well.

My mind was racing, contemplating every single possibility of what was happening, trying to find some explanation for how something like this could occur. Am I dreaming? Yes! This had to be a dream; there was no way it wasn't. It couldn't be real. How could it be? The Backrooms aren't real. I just made it up. It was a crappy idea that I just wrote a few sentences for, and it got popular out of nowhere. It was fiction, a piece of mediocre internet literature. It couldn't be real. It was just a thing in my head. I had to be dreaming. I'll wake up soon. I just know I will. I'll text my friends and family and tell them about my day and go get drinks with them, and everything will be fine. I shut my eyes, preparing to wake up on the smooth, mahogany floor, and opened them.

But the yellow halls were still there.

They were all around me, exactly how I'd imagined them when I wrote that bullshit paragraph. Down to the individual wallpaper patterns. I felt the moist carpet slowly soaking my clothes, the buzz was ringing in my ears, and the ugly wallpaper was everywhere I looked. My creation, my stupid, sick creation, had swallowed me whole. I leaned against one of the many jagged and eerie walls, and I just sat in shock. This is real. I'm in the Backrooms. I was surrounded by nothing but six hundred million square miles of hellish monotony. I had finally started to come to terms with the unfortunate reality in front of me. My family, my friends, my job, my life are all gone forever. I'm stuck, and there is nothing I can do about it.

I finally moved my head away from my laptop screen, sighing as I clicked "Save". My project was complete, and it'd be ready for posting once I got someone from TS give the go-ahead. I was done; four months of work finally paid off. I could finally relax for a bit. I leaned back in my old office chair and cringed as I took a sip from a can of Coke that I'd left sitting on my desk for longer than intended. The familiar taste of sweet, flat, lukewarm caramel-vanilla lingered on my tongue, barely relieving the sense of dryness that had built up over the past few hours. I wondered how late I had made myself stay up, looking over at my phone with mild terror for the answer. Ignoring the endless amounts of texts from friends and family, all asking about my day or offering to go get drinks, I read the time displayed above:

2:46 AM

"I really can't keep doing this to myself." I muttered, a mix of disappointment, frustration, and sleepiness fueling my words. To be fair, it wasn't entirely my fault. I posted that 4chan paragraph on a whim; I didn't know it'd blow up. People liked the idea and wanted more, and I didn't exactly want to leave this idea at some random blurb that I posted out of boredom. I don't want to be known for half-assed writing. I want to put actual effort into what I create. I love writing, and I especially love that something I made, even when it was short and basic, spiraled into this huge community. It can be very demanding at times, though. I love the members of the community with all my heart, but they can be rather impatient when it comes to new material. Not to mention the fact that not everyone has been very fond of the additions I've made, but I don't exactly write this stuff for those folks.

I decided that it'd be best to call it a day—or rather, a night. I shut off my laptop, staring at my reflection on the black screen. I had grown a messy, stubble-y beard. My face was scattered with zits, and the bags under my eyes were so big that I'd have to remove a few things at the airport. I closed the lid and lazily got up from my desk, followed by a squeak from my chair. I meandered over to my bedroom and prepared to flop onto my bed, but something caught my eye: a small dent in the dark wood, no bigger than an inch in diameter. I couldn't remember doing anything to cause it, so I decided to take a closer look. I ran my hand over the once smooth mahogany, but something pulled me through the floor. I fell for what seemed like forever, and I was finally met with itchy, wet carpeting.

Confused and trying to comprehend what just happened, I lifted my head off the floor and looked around, only to find old, mono-yellow wallpaper, the stink of moist carpet, and the vexatious hum-buzz of fluorescent lighting. I recognized it almost immediately. I knew it all too well.

My mind was racing, contemplating every single possibility of what was happening, trying to find some explanation for how something like this could occur. Am I dreaming? Yes! This had to be a dream; there was no way it wasn't. It couldn't be real. How could it be? The Backrooms aren't real. I just made it up. It was a crappy idea that I just wrote a few sentences for, and it got popular out of nowhere. It was fiction, a piece of mediocre internet literature. It couldn't be real. It was just a thing in my head. I had to be dreaming. I'll wake up soon. I just know I will. I'll text my friends and family and tell them about my day and go get drinks with them, and everything will be fine. I shut my eyes, preparing to wake up on the smooth, mahogany floor, and opened them.

But the yellow halls were still there.

They were all around me, exactly how I'd imagined them when I wrote that bullshit paragraph. Down to the individual wallpaper patterns. I felt the moist carpet slowly soaking my clothes, the buzz was ringing in my ears, and the ugly wallpaper was everywhere I looked. My creation, my stupid, sick creation, had swallowed me whole. I leaned against one of the many jagged and eerie walls, and I just sat in shock. This is real. I'm in the Backrooms. I was surrounded by nothing but six hundred million square miles of hellish monotony. I had finally started to come to terms with the unfortunate reality in front of me. My family, my friends, my job, my life are all gone forever. I'm stuck, and there is nothing I can do about it.