At Least They're Committed

Alone in my office waiting for my ride, I can’t help but appreciate the sanctuary, the stillness of the final moments I’ll ever be alone here. It’s silent and sane and the buzz of the overhead lights is comforting; white noise to the lack thereof.

I also can’t help but imagine what would happen if some psychotic, hatchet-bearing person, male or female, were quietly, secretly locked in here with me and tomorrow the building’s occupants found my limbs crudely severed from my torso, my head twisted looking toward my spine with empty eyes, my blond hair red and sticky with blood, entrails decorating the chairs and tables throughout the office space.

I’m not maudlin or nuts. Really I’m not; I’ve been tested and everything. I’m simply not being particularly intellectually stimulated at the moment and am blessed/burdened with an overactive imagination.