You retreat into the dish alcove. Eventually, the dishes start coming in thick and fast. You slide into the timeless trance that doing dishes has always induced, everywhere you ever worked. Somewhere along the line, you notice that it’s hard to close your eyes. Most of the dishes are stained black with some sort of squid ink. It’s getting on your hands, just like the horrible stain on the wall. Somehow, it doesn’t concern you. After the shift you don’t know where to go. You’ve forgotten where you live. You’ve forgotten your name. You have always been in this dish room. The line cooks take you downstairs and lock you in the basement. Tomorrow, you will do dishes again.
The End Would Be More Merciful.
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