The walls were white, the ceiling light was dim, and the room contained nothing but a clock on one wall and a metal door on another. Tick tock, tick tock. That’s the only sound I’ve heard for the last hour and a half. It’s annoying but worth it for the pay. It’s a piece of cake standing. The interviewer had seemed so serious, so grave when I’d come in.

“I just have to stand?” I’d asked.

The interviewer seemed so disappointed. “Just stand,” he said and shook his head.

So here I was, bored, standing, thanking God they’d put a clock in the room. The ticking was soothing in a weird way. I’ve got a shit case of tinnitus that drives me nuts when it’s too quiet. The ticking was just loud enough to keep it from getting annoying.

I wiggled my toes, my feet were getting sore. A massage, a foot massage. That’s the first thing I’m getting when I get out of here. A few more hours and I’ll call it a day. A good day at the office, great pay.

I paced around, the time passed so slowly. The room was about six by six feet and two feet higher than my head. I’d been pacing around, keeping track of how many times I’d circled the room, trying to get some exercise if I have to be locked in here. Fuck. This is so boring, I can’t do it anymore, my feet are sore. I walked over to the door and banged on it. “Hey! You can let me out now, I’m done for the day.” No answer. I banged on it again, this time harder. They must not’ve heard me. “Hey, fucker! Open up!”

Silence again. What the hell? I looked at the clock, about two hours had passed. Not a bad pay day at all, but I’m done, I’m bored and my feet hurt. “Hey! I’m tired, lemme out!” I banged my fist against the door, once, twice, thrice. No answer.

They’re out for lunch, and they forgot to leave someone at my door, that’s it. I’ll wait another hour, then try again. How long can they be out for lunch? Not more than another hour right? Not more than that. Probably less.

I paced the room some more and my stomach began to grumble. I stopped at the door and banged it with my fist. “Hey! I’m getting hungry! You fuckers better get back from lunch!” My throat hurt from the yelling—I could really use a drink.

I sat down in the corner, leaned my head against the wall. It’s alright I’ll just rest here a while and they’ll come bring some food or water or something. I closed my eyes, they were tired, I’d just rest my eyes a moment.

I opened my eyes, I’d fallen asleep. I went up to the door and banged on it again, screaming for someone to let me out. Nothing. Fuck these guys, how long have I been in here even? I turned around to see the clock. It was gone. What the fuck?

I rubbed my eyes and blank a bunch. I must be seeing things, there was definitely a clock here, definitely. I felt the wall where the clock had been, it wasn’t there.

My ears began to ring, nothing to drown it out now. I went back to the door and screamed. “HEY! ASSHOLES! I’M GOING NUTS IN HERE, OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” I banged on the door again and again, banged it so hard I was worried my fist would break.

Fuck it’s no use. No one’s listening. Or they are and don’t have half a shit to give. No it’s not that. If they don’t give a shit I’m stuck here, if they’re not there they’ll get back and I can get out, I can get out.

I decided to sleep to pass the time, I scrunched up in the corner and tried to get my head to lean comfortably. It didn’t.

I woke up again, there was a tray by the door. I crawled over to it. There was a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of water. No no no. They left food. They did. They’re listening. They can hear me bang on the door. They don’t give a shit. I’m here. When do I get out? I dragged the tray back over to my corner and began to eat, staring at the door, hoping some bastard would walk in.

I had to go to the bathroom eventually, you can only hold it in so long. I pissed in the cup and shit in the tray, they’d take it away when they slept. They were God. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Sleep was good. Sleep had dreams. Dreams weren’t white walls.

I could still picture the world when I dreamt. How long until I can’t remember it well enough to dream about? No, don’t think that you fucker. You’re going to be fine. You are fine. Just bored. Nothing to do, nothing. Jumping jacks, push-ups, pacing. Those are all good fun, you’re having the best of fun in here. The best of fun.

“Yes, you’re right, I have the best of fun in here. Four walls and a roof over my head, very nice.” I nodded, it all seemed so nice in here.

I’ve started making art. I’ve never had an eye for art before but the isolation made my creative side come out. Don’t waste anything when you’re this bored, you can’t, you’ll go insane. I’m not insane, I’m not bored, I have art, the best art really.

I’ve got a nice painting on the wall, like a cave painting, it’s really quite nice. If they could just leave them on the walls when I sleep that would be fantastic, fucking fantastic. Or better yet, leave some paint, the materials I have now are shit.

Tick tock tick tock. I hate the ringing, fuck the ringing, death to ringing. I’ll find the cure for tinnitus when I get out, I swear to God.

I made earplugs and the ringing stopped. They really do let me have a lot of materials in here, they only take them when I sleep. I try not to sleep when I make art I like, they take it away, disappear it. Fuck them, it’s mine. They’re taking pictures of it I bet, it’s that good. They’re making a fortune with those photographs, I have my own exhibit, my own museum. Statues of me in parks, they teach about me in art history classes. I’m a fucking genius. They’ll call you crazy when you get out. “No, they won’t call me crazy, they won’t dare, the fuckers. I’m a genius, not crazy, not crazy, not crazy, not—”

I’m painting on the wall. It’s a big sign, it says “FUCK YOU ROOM.” My best work yet, very personal, very good, genius. My best yet, yes, yes, I love it. If someone else came in the room they’d say it smelt. Yes of course it smells I’d say. It smells of genius, it must, my genius is so pungent you can smell it. I must be a genius, must be. A lesser man would’ve gone insane by now but not me, not me. I have my art.

I don’t paint anymore. They keep washing it off, it’s no use, no matter how good it is. I can’t impress them, I’m no good. The ringing came back, please, please stop. I began to cry, I hadn’t cried yet in all my time here but now I did, I couldn’t help it.

I heard a creak, it sounded like a door opening. I’m crazy, it finally happened, I’m hallucinating, it’s over now. Insanity take me, please. It’ll be less boring.

“Okay buddy, come on you’re done.” I looked up and the interviewer stood there, clipboard in hand. “You didn’t do bad, twenty-three days and four hours. Sixtieth percentile. You can get your cheque from Miranda at the front desk on your way out.”