Forever Ending

You’re running. The lights overhead are a strobe. Flash, darkness, flash, darkness. The hallways of the hospital stretch forever in front of you, sterile, linoleum-waxed like a nightmare that repeats. Somewhere behind you, the alarms scream. Red flashes. Flash, darkness, flash. It’s just you, barefoot in this endless corridor, the walls breathing like the flesh of some great beast. Every door is locked. All except one.

And that’s the one you burst through, into another hallway that is identical to the last. You run, your bare feet slapping tile. That sharp ammonia tang of antiseptic everywhere. The walls stretch. The ceiling pulls higher, and higher. The walls pulse, ripple, and then breathe. You swear you hear a heartbeat beneath it all. Your lungs burn, your throat feels raw, and your legs are trembling, but you can’t stop. Stopping means surrender, and you know that whatever waits behind you is worse than exhaustion, worse than pain.

Another door. You push through, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes. Now it’s a field of tall grass and the sky is wrong—a lavender bruise, streaked with veins. The grass is tall, whispering secrets as it sways, brushing against your legs, your arms, like fingers trying to pull you back. You run until the grass becomes asphalt, and suddenly you’re sprinting down a highway lit by a thousand headlights, the smell of oil, of tar and smoke and something burning. It’s a freeway with no destination. You pass cars with shattered windows and faceless people, turned in to stare at you from the dark. Their faces are smooth, blank slates, but you feel their eyes, somehow. Watching. Judging.

You stop. You bend at the waist and take in air, lungs on fire, and then something catches your eye. You see it in the sky. In all that dark bruised sky, a light flickers—red, bright. It’s a sign, hanging in the air. It pulses in and out of existence, like a lighthouse beacon calling you home.

EXIT.

Just one word, big letters. You have no idea what it means, but you know you need to reach it. You keep moving, stumbling now, shoes gone, feet raw, cold, but you’re almost there—your fingers stretch out, reaching, grasping for something real. Your vision blurs, the sign blinks, and you can almost touch it, almost...

Then it all fades. The sign, the sky, the road, the fields. The walls of the hospital collapse in on themselves like paper. The freeway folds, the grass wilts, and all that’s left is the white of hospital lights. Blinding. Sterile. Unforgiving.

You’re back in bed. A tube runs into your arm. Machines whir beside you, keeping time, drip, drip, drip. The rhythm is relentless, like a clock ticking down the seconds of your life. A voice speaks. You’re not sure if it’s a nurse or your own conscience. It whispers something about a bad trip, about fentanyl laced with something deadly. About how you shouldn’t be here. How it’s a miracle you’re alive at all. But it doesn’t feel like a miracle. It feels like a punishment.

This is the first moment you realize, truly realize, you never left the hospital. That you’ve been in this bed for months, years maybe, repeating the same journey in your mind. The nurses come and go, faceless figures in scrubs, their voices muffled, like you’re underwater. You try to speak, but your mouth is dry, your tongue heavy. The words die before they can form. They’re not listening anyway.

You see flashes in your mind—those hallways, the fields, the highway. You hear the alarms, the pounding of your feet, the breath tearing from your lungs. It’s all so real. More real than the cold bed, more real than the tube in your arm. And you wonder if maybe that’s the truth. Maybe the running, the endless doors, the bruised sky—maybe that’s reality. And this? This hospital room is the illusion. A cruel trick.

And it will never end.

You feel the tears well up, but they don’t fall. They sit there, heavy, like a weight pressing down on your chest. This place isn’t something you can escape. The EXIT is a lie. The running, the doors, the highway—it’s all a loop, a circle with no beginning and no end. The walls breathe, the sky bruises, and you keep running. Over and over. Forever.

The machines keep time. Drip, drip, drip. And somewhere, deep down, you know that you’ll wake up again in that hallway. And you’ll run. Because that’s all there is. Running, forever. Searching for an EXIT that doesn’t exist.