Bottom of the World
Each day, you find new ways to disappoint the Narrator.
You fall off the path, quite literally. Ignoring the Narrator seems to have lead you off the edge of the map, sending you on a straight plunge toward the center of nothing. He’ll hate you for it, no doubt that he’ll hurt you. For now, though, your attention is occupied by the rabbit hole you’ve gotten yourself into.
Looking up, you can see the bottom of the world, and it feels wrong, like looking up a skirt. You’re not supposed to see the skeleton of the building, nor watch as it shrinks further and further away.
The ground hits you. Surprised to even find the ground, it takes a while for you to get back up. Once you manage, you catch sight of yourself–and yourself.
And yourself with yourself looking at other selves looking at yourself.
It’s a room of mirrors, their faces all turned on you. You don’t like what you see. The reflections look at you with hollow eyes and mouths that only show teeth at the entrance to a void. They’re shriveled up, spines curled over time.
You look down, but can’t see your feet, only another mirror and yourself–still falling. You wait for them to hit the ground, but you feel a hand yank the back of your shirt.
The Office restarts.