Devoured - Birdy Brunner
Buildings are alive; you swear this to be true. They have their own soul—emotions that human beings are incapable of understanding. Although you recognize that comprehending such an unfathomable creature is futile, you must try. You must, because you are being consumed by a building.
It happened so slowly, so inconspicuously, that it’s difficult for you to remember when it first began. Your office building was mundane—it was so boring looking that it bordered on mind-numbing. This mundanity turned out to be deceitful. After several weeks of going to the exact same building, you noticed something.
Red spindly lines would often appear on the outside of your office.
They looked like dead tree branches or the veins in a human body. All the buildings were painted a sterile white, and so the red veins boldly stood out—glaring at everyone who would dare to look up and notice them. At least once a month, you could see people on top of massive ladders, attempting to paint over the ominous red lines—but to no avail. They always returned.
It’s labyrinthian structure is designed to be as confusing as possible. Everything looks so similar—which way is north, which way is east. It’s easy to mindlessly wonder into the wrong spot. It becomes normal for you, to be lost and distorted. You frantically try to map out the endless white void of cubicles; you physically cling to whatever you can grasps, hoping to relieve your confusion.
As you stroll through the hall, you firmly press your fingertips against a blank white wall—it’s always warm, uncomfortably so. It’s damp, like sweat. You can feel it vibrating. It’s pulsating. It reminds you of flesh, and of the blood vessels that travel under your skin at this very moment.
Something is wrong. You are being swallowed, driven into the depth of a bottomless stomach. This was a place that wanted to devour people. You saw those intricate red webs as bars on a prison cell. You felt like these buildings never wanted people to leave, that its insatiable appetite would never be satisfied.
And how could it ever be content? The building needs people to operate—without us, it would fall into despair. It’s a parasitic ecosystem—we both need each other to survive. This desperation, this terror of isolation can cause even the most loathed of enemies to bond.
This building has heard your deepest secrets. You have borne your soul within this confining space. It has listened as you sobbed in the bathroom. This is the most intimate relationship you’ve ever had. It knows you, and yet, you still fail to understand it as well.
Time wore on. You wondered if you were wrong. As you repeatedly saw office officials desperately try to suppress intrusive red veins, you realized how exhausting it must be—to be rejected for what you truly are and forced to be something else. You know how heartbreaking it is, to be hated for existing.
You thought that despite thousands of people inhabiting its walls, no one actually saw it. No one recognized the messages that it was constantly trying to send. How lonely it must be, you thought, to never been seen for what you are. Perhaps these buildings weren’t the stomach at all.
This building loves you—how could you have been so stupid to think otherwise? In the busiest moments, when the office was buzzing with thousands of people all walking at the same time, you would sometimes freeze in place. It was then, as you listened to the rumble of the workers’ footsteps, you would swear it sounded like a heart beating.