THE CUBICLE
CHAPTER FIVE
Michael woke from his deep sleep in blind belief that life had changed—that he was in a new home, with a loving family and a steady job. But that was only a dream. The Sandman had duped him again.
The craving hit him hard. Cigarettes. He dragged on a black hoodie and grey sweatpants, stepped out for the first time in three days, and made his way toward the corner store. The sky was gray and dull, the sun held hostage behind thick clouds. A cold wind sliced through his clothes like ice. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm himself as he descended the steps of his building.
Seagulls strutted along the curb, scavenging scraps from tourists and pedestrians—an odd sight in the city. Traffic snarled, horns blaring like a circus gone mad. Taxis weaved through, rushing clients to airports and hidden corners of New York. Above it all, the skyscrapers loomed like silent guardians.
He passed a basketball court alive with shouts and sweat. Teenagers battled in a four-on-one, gasping for air between plays. Vendors hovered around the fence, hawking burritos, shawarma, and burgers. The smell was exquisite, and Michael’s stomach growled, but he turned away. Street food always cursed him with sickness by morning.
Families strolled by, mothers pushing prams, savoring the thin break of sunlight that trickled through gray clouds. Michael kept his hands buried in his pockets—a habit he thought made him look weak, submissive, but he couldn’t stop. Life had beaten confidence out of him long ago.
By the time he reached the corner store, anxiety chewed at his chest. He pushed the door open, the bell announcing his entrance louder than it needed to. Behind the counter stood a short Indian man, turban tied neatly on his head like a bullseye.
“What can I do you for?” the man asked.
“One pack of Marlboro Reds,” Michael muttered.
The clerk groaned as he climbed onto a stool and fetched the cigarettes. Michael paid reluctantly—his government checks were late again.
“And a lighter,” Michael added.
The man slid him a neon-green Bic. Michael pocketed it and stepped back into the polluted air.
He tapped the pack with his left hand—his ritual—before lighting up. The first inhale burned, the smoke heavy in his lungs, but the rush came quickly. Dopamine spiked. For a moment, he felt weightless, euphoric.
But peace never lasted. His apartment meant shadows twitching at the corners of his vision, things moving when he wasn’t looking. Maybe paranormal, maybe madness. Either way, he was stuck in a cycle of debt, paranoia, and betrayal.
By dusk he returned to his building. On the landing, trap music thumped from Dante’s apartment. Dante spotted him and grinned wide.
“Neighbor! Still not sleeping well? I’ve got something for that—or are you gonna keep being a little bitch?”
Michael’s jaw tightened. I’m sick of your shit, he whispered under his breath, too soft for Dante to hear.
Dante swaggered closer, palm open. A tiny plastic bag glinted in the hallway light—two pills inside.
“On the house,” Dante said with a smirk, disappearing back into his apartment, bass shaking the walls.
Michael froze, staring at the bag. Then he pocketed it and went inside.
He lit another cigarette and sat on his sagging waterbed. The little bag lay in his palm, innocent yet dangerous. LSD, he thought. Curiosity won. He placed one tab on his tongue. Hours passed. Nothing. Impatient, he swallowed the second.
Darkness closed in.
When he opened his eyes, his LED lights blazed brighter than ever, shifting from red to blue to green in hypnotic rhythm. He rose to his feet, spellbound.
Suddenly, he was at the corner store again. The clerk’s turban had detached, circling his head like a belly dancer in sacred ceremony.
A blink later, he stood on a beach. Seagulls wheeled above in perfect formation, their beaks clicking in unison as if speaking in a language he understood.
Michael laughed. First softly, then louder, until hysteria consumed him. Passersby threw him wary glances, but he couldn’t stop. He laughed until the world itself collapsed into black.
When he woke, he was strapped to a hospital bed. Ancient words poured from his mouth, words even he didn’t recognize. Nurses looked on, baffled, as he ranted about the end of the world and presidents enslaved by alien masters. A needle pierced his arm, and the world blurred again.
The next time his eyes opened, he wasn’t home. Four beige walls closed around him—no window, no mirror, no escape. His arms were locked tight in a straitjacket. The truth cut deep: an asylum.
Panic surged. “Oh my God! What have I done?!” His cries echoed off the walls.
A male nurse stormed in, face blank, eyes cold. His fist drove into Michael’s torso, pain blooming sharp and merciless. Michael gasped, curling into himself, tears burning down his cheeks.
“This is the beginning of the end,” he whispered, writhing in despair.
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