I always liked room temperature best. It blends into my skin, you see, so there is no difference between when the air stops and me. I could stand here for hours, days even, in complete silence. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I always liked quiet. No one to disturb me while I stood. That was my job, you see. The air, my skin, the nothing—it all bled into the same after a while. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Would you shut up?” she said, voice in my ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I never liked them. The people with their sweat laden, round faces. Fingerprints that left behind foggy imprinted circles against the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Always watching me with those imploring, hollow holes, day after day. They are always watching me, and I would like them to stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“They are not watching you!” she said. “No one is!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/em>You see, they are. You know.<\/em> I can get no release unless I take action myself. Moving is difficult from where I stand rooted to this oak pedestal, but I will. It is agonizing to do so and strikes pain through my fabricated tendons as I lift. Gradually, I lift.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I move. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Wrenching my cobbled shoes away, I become unstuck. Only a few more steps, and I will have made it out. You see, this is my only option.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Don’t go,” she insists from behind. <\/p>\n\n\n\n You are still stuck, you know. Boring into me while wearing a feigned mask of Queen Victoria. As if you are any better. Despite your royal status, you still wear cheap shoes. I can see where they zipped you up at the back. Torn at your seams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I must go. I reach, skin crackling as I stretch towards the door. I push slowly until I get what I want. This is my only option.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The lights are dim out here, beyond the glass and your ridiculous Victorian frills. It is hotter, too. Their prints swirl from this side. I always knew they were slobs, dripping condensation like that. If I cared, I would clean it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I keep moving. The floor beneath me is littered with shoes left behind. Waxen and slippery. They try every night, I suppose. Their clothing is long gone, not solid. A wisp of a memory. No one even bothers to recycle the zippers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n They are loathsome creatures, you know. The other people. Not the last attempts. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Now there is a difference between the air and me, you know. Room temperature turning sultry. I guess I have failed. My skin is falling apart now. I am bubbling and dissolving in a steady gurgle of yellow. I am peeling apart as we speak. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I try to get closer. The door sign glows red: EXIT<\/strong>. This is my only option.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Soon I will have melted. I cannot know, but I know, and I am telling you now. The last of me all but eroded and caved in until I left behind only a small pool of sticky liquid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Do you think they will mop me up? No, of course not.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I have split down the middle, you know, and now I am just a zipper and a pair of wooden shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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