The fluorescent lights of the office buzzed faintly, their harsh glow casting long shadows across the rows of empty cubicles. The hum was a constant, almost imperceptible drone, like the background noise of Mark's life—steady, unchanging, and utterly devoid of meaning. At 11:47 PM on a Friday night, the clock on his computer screen seemed to taunt him, its digital numbers inching forward with agonizing slowness. The weekend was so close, yet it felt impossibly far away. Not that it mattered. Weekends were just brief respites, fleeting moments of relief before the grind began again.
Mark leaned back in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking under his weight. His eyes burned from hours of staring at the spreadsheet on his monitor, the endless rows of numbers blurring into an indistinguishable mess. He rubbed his temples, trying to stave off the headache that had been building all day. His life felt like this spreadsheet: a series of meaningless tasks, each cell filled with data that no one would ever care about. Twelve years he'd been at this company, and what did he have to show for it? A slightly bigger cubicle? A slightly higher salary that was swallowed by bills, rent, and the occasional takeout meal?
He sighed, the sound heavy with a frustration that had become a constant companion. The office was eerily quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the lights and the occasional clatter of a janitor's cart in the distance. He glanced around at the empty desks, their monitors dark and chairs neatly tucked in. Everyone else had left hours ago, eager to start their weekends. But not Mark. He stayed because it was expected of him. Because saying no felt like admitting failure. Because, deep down, he didn't know what else to do.
He shut down his computer, the click of the power button a small punctuation mark on another unremarkable day. The screen went black, and for a moment, he just sat there, staring at his reflection in the darkened monitor. His face looked older than he remembered, the lines around his eyes deeper, the shadows under them darker. When had that happened? When had he become this tired, hollow version of himself? He grabbed his coat and left his chair that had the contours of his body etched into it.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was silent, the soft whir of the machinery the only sound. The doors opened to reveal a quiet hallway, the fluorescent lights here just as harsh as the ones upstairs. He stepped out, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness. The security guard at the front desk gave him a nod, but Mark barely noticed. He was already lost in his thoughts, the weight of the week pressing down on him like a physical force.
Exiting the building, he stepped into the cool, dark night of the city. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of exhaust and something else—something metallic, like the taste of blood in the back of his throat. The streets were nearly empty, the usual hustle and bustle replaced by an eerie stillness. A few cars passed by, their headlights cutting through the darkness, but for the most part, the city felt abandoned.
He pulled out his phone and opened the same tired music playlist he always did. The familiar chords of a song he'd heard a thousand times filled his ears, but they brought no comfort. Same songs, same route, same feeling of complete and utter pointlessness. It was all beginning to wear on him, the monotony grinding him down like sandpaper on wood.
His car was parked a few blocks away, a dented old sedan that was a sad reflection of his own worn-down state. He unlocked it with a click, the sound sharp in the quiet night. The door creaked as he opened it, the interior smelling faintly of stale coffee and old fast-food wrappers. He slid into the driver's seat, the leather cold against his back. The engine sputtered to life, the sound rough and uneven, like it was protesting the late hour.
He pulled out into the empty street, the familiar red glow of the few brake lights ahead of him seeming to pulse with the rhythm of his despair. The city passed by in a blur of neon signs and darkened windows, the occasional pedestrian hurrying along the sidewalks with their heads down. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 12:03 AM. Another day gone, another day wasted.
As he drove, his mind wandered, drifting back to the question that had been haunting him for weeks, months, maybe even years. What is the point of all this? The thought was like a splinter in his mind, impossible to ignore. He'd tried to push it away, to focus on the tasks at hand, but it always came back, sharper and more insistent each time.
He thought about his life, about the years he'd spent working at the same company, doing the same job, living the same routine. He thought about the promotions he'd missed, the opportunities he'd let slip through his fingers. He thought about the dreams he'd had when he was younger, dreams of travel, of adventure, of a life that felt meaningful. Where had they gone? When had he given up on them?
A sudden movement to his right caught his attention. He glanced over and saw a young couple walking hand in hand, their laughter carrying through the open window of his car. They looked carefree, happy, like they didn't have a worry in the world. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that way. Had he ever? Or had he always been like this, weighed down by responsibilities and expectations, by the fear of failure and the crushing weight of mediocrity?
The traffic light ahead turned red, and he came to a stop, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He stared at the light, willing it to change, to let him move forward, to let him escape this moment. But it stayed red, stubborn and unyielding, like the universe itself was mocking him.
Mark's mind wandered again, drifting back to the question that had been haunting him for weeks, months, maybe even years. What is the point of all this? The thought was like a splinter in his mind, impossible to ignore. He'd tried to push it away, to focus on the tasks at hand, but it always came back, sharper and more insistent each time.
A sudden movement to his right caught his attention. He glanced over and saw a young couple walking hand in hand, their laughter carrying through the open window of his car. They looked carefree, happy, like they didn't have a worry in the world. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that way. Had he ever? Or had he always been like this, weighed down by responsibilities and expectations, by the fear of failure and the crushing weight of mediocrity?
The light was still red. He sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his own tired face. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper in the dim light, the shadows under them darker. He looked away, unable to bear the sight.
Then, a flash of light. A pair of headlights, far too bright, appeared suddenly in his peripheral vision. He turned his head, his heart leaping into his throat. The other car was coming fast, too fast, its tires screeching as it swerved into his lane. Time seemed to slow as his mind raced, a flood of thoughts crashing through him. This can't be happening. Not now. Not like this.
He had no time to react, no time to do anything but brace himself. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, his body tensing as he braced for impact. The headlights grew brighter, blinding him, and for a split second, he thought of all the things he'd never done, the places he'd never seen, the life he'd never lived.
The impact was deafening, a sickening crunch of metal on metal. His car was thrown sideways, the force of the collision sending him slamming into the steering wheel. Pain exploded in his face as his nose broke, the taste of blood filling his mouth. His chest was crushed by the steering column, the air forced from his lungs in a gasp. He heard the sound of glass shattering, felt the sharp sting of it cutting into his skin.
The world twisted and spun, the car rolling over before coming to a stop on its side. Mark's body was thrown against the door, his head hitting the window with a dull thud. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His vision was blurry, his thoughts fragmented. He could feel warm blood flowing down his face, pooling in his lap. His leg was pinned beneath the dashboard, a jagged piece of glass protruding from it. He tried to scream, but the sound caught in his throat, coming out as a gurgling choke.
Through the wreckage, he saw the other car, its front end completely destroyed, its driver slumped over the airbag. The man was young, his face slack, blood and drool staining his open mouth. His thumb twitched, and his phone screen flickered, illuminating a half-written text message. Mark's eyes drifted to the screen, but he couldn't make out the words. His vision was fading, the edges of his consciousness slipping away.
The last thought that raced through his mind before darkness consumed him was not one of anger, but one of weary resignation. So, this is it. Of course it is.
The world went black, the sound of sirens faint in the distance. The traffic was almost nonexistent, and the cars that would pass this scene in the future would slow down, to view the carnage that was once Mark and his car. No one would know the despair and hopelessness he had felt. No one would remember him as anything more than a statistic, another casualty of the city's relentless pace.
And just like that, Mark's life ended, not with a bang but a sickening crunch, a testament to the grim banality of his existence, cut short by the reckless actions of another.