The Prelude
4:44 AM
inspired by the film, Everything Everywhere All At Once
The Aftermath
His eyes opened to pulsing light. Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder around him. A scarf draped over a ceiling light turned everything amber, and the floor stuck slightly underfoot. A speaker sat on a chair and made the chair legs tremble. A cup landed in his hand, and someone laughed in his ear as a hand slid across his back. He took a sip and winced. It was sugary and strong enough to sting, but he swallowed anyway. Each time he drifted toward an edge, someone pulled him back in with an arm around his shoulder or fingers around his wrist.
“You’re good,” a man shouted, face shiny with sweat. “You’re with us!”
The man tugged him forward, and the crowd sealed around him. He laughed when other people laughed, nodded at jokes he didn’t hear, and danced because standing still made him noticeable in the worst way. He kept his cup raised. He followed a girl with yellow glitter on her eyelids toward a hallway where shoes spilled across the floor, and jackets slumped in corners. At the bathroom door, the girl turned and looked him up and down.
“Who’d you come with?” she asked.
He opened his mouth, but thought had already fled. Behind her, a voice sounded from inside the bathroom: “We’re full.”
The girl shrugged, stepped inside, and shut the door.
Someone shoved past with a hissed “Move,” and his heel caught on a shoe. A coat hook snagged his sleeve, ripping the fabric with a dry tearing sound, and he looked down at the split seam as heat spread across his face. In the living room, a guy with a red cup bumped him hard enough to slosh a drink down his chest.
“Watch it,” the guy snapped.
“I—sorry.”
The guy looked through him and turned away mid-sentence, already speaking to someone else. He stood with his shirt soaked through, the spill drying into evidence. The bass drove through his chest and his stomach clenched tight. The walls breathed him in and out, boxing in his lungs. The amber light stretched into streaks. His fingers found cold metal. The spin slowed. The music collapsed into a thin ringing.
He spilled onto tile, cheek pressed against the floor as his lungs dragged in air. When he pushed himself up, his shirt was gone, and one shoe was missing. His shoulder strained when he moved. He ran a hand over his face and felt stubble where his skin had been smooth, saw his eyes sunken in the brushed metal reflection of the washing machine. He lifted his hand and found faint lines at the corners of his fingers—creases that didn’t belong to one night. Three front-loading machines lined one wall, their brushed metal faces dulled by fingerprints and scratches. Around the handles, the metal was worn brighter, polished by years of palms. Above them, a blue digital clock hung slightly crooked: 4:44 AM.
He stood as the tile pressed cold through his socks. A stained ceiling tile above showed a hairline crack running corner to corner, darkened where moisture had seeped in and dried. The air was warm in the wrong way, used air smelling like soap that had tried and failed to cover something older. Somewhere underneath the electrical buzz, something low and wet sounded once. He walked to the second machine, where the drum moved with a harder rhythm. Through the fogged glass he saw daylight flashes, a long counter, people in line, and a uniformed figure leaning forward. The smell coming through the door was disinfectant, old paper, and the poignant sting of nervous sweat. He gripped the handle and pulled.
A crowded office with low ceilings and fluorescent panels hummed overhead. The air was dry and recycled. A line of people stood behind a rope barrier with a sign near the front: APPOINTMENTS ONLY in thick black letters. Another sign taped crookedly to the wall: NO EXCEPTIONS. He stood behind an older woman holding a folder to her chest, her hands trembling, the folder worn at the edges. She smoothed the paper with her thumb. At the counter, a clerk sat behind glass with a small speaker, her eyes on a computer.
“I’m here about my benefits,” a man said, holding a baby on his hip, the baby’s face flushed from crying.
“Next,” the clerk said, eyes still on the computer.
“I’ve been trying to call—”
The clerk looked up, her eyes glassy and impenetrable. “If you don’t have an appointment, you need to leave.”
“I was told to come in. I was told someone would help me.”
The clerk tapped a laminated sheet on the counter with one finger. “Appointments only.”
The baby started crying and the man bounced the child. “Please. We don’t have heat. She’s sick.”
Behind him, people in line moved restlessly. Someone murmured. A security guard near the wall straightened, one hand moving to his belt.
The older woman in front whispered, “They did this to my sister. Denied her three times. She died waiting.”
The man at the counter tried again. “I just need someone to look at—”
The guard stepped forward and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man flinched, pulling the baby closer. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sir,” the guard said, voice calm. “You need to leave.”
“You’re going to put us outside? In February?”
The baby’s crying intensified, a thin wail that filled the small space. The man’s voice cracked. “Please. Just look at the paperwork. That’s all I’m asking.”
The guard tightened his grip, and the man’s shoulder dipped under the pressure. The baby screamed.
He’d been that man—standing under bad light with paperwork damp from his hands, keeping his voice level so no one could call him a problem, watching the person behind the glass blink slowly and look past him like he was a pane of glass. He’d stood in lines that moved backward, where every step forward was swallowed by red tape. He’d been told to leave when leaving meant freezing but staying meant suffering. Every instruction, every polite dismissal, every waiting room glance chipped away at him, until compliance itself felt like surrender. And so, he braced against the invisible weight of all the small indignities, the quiet erosion of his presence, the dismissal of his proof, and for the first time in a long time, he acted for himself. He pushed past the rope.
“Stop.” His voice cut through the sterile hum. Heads turned.
“Let him talk to someone.”
The clerk’s eyes fixed on him. “Step back.”
He didn’t move. The security guard released the man with the baby, stepping toward him instead, body squared.
“Back up.”
He pointed at the counter, finger shaking. “You’re telling him to leave with a sick baby. You’re hiding behind glass and laminated sheets while people freeze.”
The guard grabbed his arm. Soon all he could see was the baby’s red face, the mother’s empty chair at home, and the paperwork that would be filed and forgotten.
“You’re killing people,” he said. “You know that. You sit here every day and kill people.”
The first hit landed across his ribs, and he stumbled into the rope barrier. He threw a hand out to steady himself, but the guard punched him again. His shoulder slammed against the wall and his mouth filled with the taste of metal. He heard himself yelling as two more guards appeared. One hooked an arm under his neck. Another pushed him down. His cheek hit the tile. He felt pressure between his shoulder blades, a knee digging into him, some hands twisting his arms backward. His chest constricted, the pressure forcing his breath shallow while every joint strained against the tug. The world narrowed to the force pressing him forward, the unyielding resistance of bodies and authority around him. Every second stretched; every movement required effort just to stay upright.
“Stop resisting.”
His knees buckled, his shoulders sagging, the arms hanging heavy at his sides. The weight drove his ribs into the floor. He gasped but nothing came in. His eyes felt heavy; the world shrunk to a pinprick at the center of his gaze. He gasped again, but his chest wouldn’t expand. The ceiling lights became scars. Voices stretched and warped. His hand scraped across the floor and found a metal table leg. As he gripped the cold, smooth surface, the office sounds thinned into a dull hiss.
He spilled back onto tile in the bleach-smelling room, gasping, one hand pressed to his ribs where his side ached with each breath. When he tried to stand, his knees complained, stiff and unwilling. He steadied himself on the machine’s metal face. A dull ache ran through his wrists. His hands looked different. Skin hung looser across his knuckles. Fine lines had settled around his mouth. When he touched his face, the stubble was coarser.
He turned to the third machine. The glass was less fogged, cleaner than the others; with the metal around the handle polished bright. Through the glass came sounds: a phone buzzing, a microwave beeping, the clatter of dishes, and the shuffle of feet. His palm pressed flat against the glass, and its warmth welcomed him in. He twisted the handle and pulled.
A dining room thick with synthetic lavender and reheated tomato sauce, the long table holding stacks of papers—bills, forms, envelopes sealed with yellow stamps. A woman sat at one end staring at her phone, shoulders drawn up, one hand gripping the edge of the table. Two friends stood near the counter, whispering and laughing softly at something on a screen. The woman’s eyes moved from her phone to the table—the scattered papers, the cups with dried rings at the bottom, the fork still lying where someone had left it. Her eyes cut to him, quick and sharp, then back to her phone before he could meet her gaze. But he’d seen it from the corner of his eye. His stomach tightened. He stood and moved quietly, gathering papers into stacks, clearing cups, rinsing dishes.
“Did you send that email?” the woman asked without looking up.
“I’m doing it now.” He reached for his phone.
One of the friends smirked. “He always says that.”
The other laughed. “He means well.”
He forced a small smile and typed as they watched. His phone buzzed with another message. He glanced down to see his name in a thread. The screen showed only a few lines before his thumb moved.
we need an exit strategy
how do we phase him out
he’s going to make a scene
His throat tightened and he scrolled, not wanting to, unable to stop.
he always does this
even she wants out
she asked me how to do it
He looked up. The woman finally met his eyes, irritation flashing across her face.
“You went through my phone?”
He swallowed. “I saw—”
One of the friends stepped closer, hands up. “It was just venting.”
The other friend sighed. “We’ve talked about this.”
The woman set her phone down. “Can you not do this right now?”
He stood still, the dish towel wet and heavy in his hand. A fork rested on the counter beside him, tines down, catching light from the window. The room’s edges sharpened. Blood pounded in his ears. He tried to speak and found no air. The world tilted off level. His hands went numb at the fingertips. The dish towel slid from his grip, hitting the floor. He took a breath. It didn’t go all the way in. He tried again. The moment stretched past when breath should have come. His body inhaled without result. His lungs sent the request again, then again, each one sharper, while his throat refused to open.
“I can’t—” The words collapsed.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”
He backed away from the table as dark spots crept in at the edges of his vision, his hand going to his chest. Nobody moved toward him. Nobody touched him. The friends exchanged a look over his shoulder. He stumbled into the bedroom attached to the dining room. A chair in the corner held a pile of clothes waiting to be folded. On top sat a soft piece of fabric, worn at the edges. The color struck him as familiar, but he couldn’t place the shade of blue. When his fingers touched it, his stomach dropped. He gripped it, face pressed into the cloth, trying to pull air through panic. The fabric smelled of lake water and cold stones.
Behind him, someone laughed.
“See? This is what I mean.”
His lungs refused him. His fingers clenched. The blue fabric tore under the pressure, seam splitting with a dry rip. He froze, staring at the torn edge. His hand shot out and caught the metal frame of the chair, knuckles white around the cold bar.
