Use Marble Tile for Your Flooring
Carl felt like an unused old broken toy: overworked, polished, ignored, and just a little sad. He had all but forgotten that he was a machine. He was alive, yet he felt like he had a memory built into him that kept fading. He recalled going to work every morning, he recalled following the same procedure. He remembered engaging in the same activities, but he had forgotten how.
He was baffled. He felt alive, but he didn't know why. He was, pretty much, a piece of metal and steel. He had some sort of virus with him that made him feel like he was real, but he knew his reality was just a product of a machine.
There was not much metal and steel on the floorboards of the ivory tower that consisted of the lobby of the office where he worked. He stood in the lobby without a purpose. He knew that his boss, Sydney, was somewhere in the office, but it felt like he was being watched.
He didn't know how long he had stood there. He was not sure when the movement in the corner of his eye took place. It was his boss. The boss was tall, thin and lanky. He was bald and his receding hairline left out tufts every time he moved. His face was hooked up. He had a shock of white hair at the sides. He wore a tweed jacket, open to reveal a decent shirt underneath, tucked in a pair of dark grey slacks.
"Carl?" he said in a dull, almost mechanical tone.
"Yes!" said the towering automaton. Was it his boss talking to him? Was the man talking to a machine? It felt like he was doing so.
"Follow me," said Sydney briskly. It wasn't a request but a command. He felt like he had no choice but to follow. They went down the winding roads of the corridors. The fabrics of the walls were not leather or plastic, but also felt like marble tile. The walls were panels of tinted glass that formed silvery black lines that were geometric but made no sense.
Sydney led his subordinate to his office. Sydney's office was large and spacious and done in mostly black and grey, with some dark brown thrown in the mix.
There were two black chairs in the room, the one with all the sit on the visitors side and a large leather chair with a desk at the other, the one that sat behind the desk where his boss was seated.
Sydney sat at his desk, behind the desk, and waved his subordinate to sit in the chair.
"Are you feeling alright?" asked Sydney. He sounded human, but the words felt wrong, made no sense, but he felt like he was listening to a real person and not an inanimate piece of metal.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You're looking a little withdrawn," he said. "It's been almost a month since you've come to work. What is the issue?"
Carl knew that the issue, or whatever the problem was, was not something that an ordinary person could pinpoint. He was a machine. He was an automaton, but his sense of self was strong. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know why he was living, feeling pain and all.
"I don't know," said Carl.
"You don't know?" asked Sydney.
There was a moment of silence and Carl watched as his boss paced the room. Carl felt a pang of fear just watching him. Sydney was a thin and lanky man. He was a little over six feet and wore glasses. He was an accountant. A bean counter. He only had a mechanical mind. He was not a writer. He was not a scholar. His mind was not an instrument for working with other human beings. He didn't know how to deal with people. He didn't know how to handle the emotions of his supervisors.
The accountant was running a simulation in his head. He was desperately trying to figure out whether Carl was human or a machine. He had all the information that he needed from the machine's physical attributes. It was putting him in a state of confusion.
"I'm not sure," said Carl. He regretted saying it. He knew he was in a state of confusion, and he did not know why. His brain was drenched in shades of red. He sat silent.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Sydney," Carl said meekly. He was not used to feeling that way. He had been working for Sidney for a few years and there was a bond there. The world was strange. He felt like he was underwater. He couldn't see.
Sydney didn't understand. He was confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"I don't know," he said.
Conclusion: BuildUp to 'Use Marble Tile for Your Flooring'
This story is not a standalone piece of writing. It is a buildup to a larger story that the author will be writing in the future. The author of the fiction has written a concluding sentence and wants some feedback on it. Any feedback helps the author. The feedback can be about the story or about the ending or about anything. The author looks forward to constructive feedback before starting the next story.