PRESS THE BUTTON! … PRESS THE BUTTON! ... PRESS THE BUTTON! … PRESS THE BUTTON! … PRESS THE BUTTON! … PRESS THE BUTTON! 

It’s a white room. The floors, walls, and ceiling are white. The door that led into here, which is now locked, is white. The poles that hold the buttons are white. 

The buttons are red. The ‘PRESS THE BUTTON’ projection the bosses cast on the wall is red. There’s a sound that plays when the phrase appears. It sounds red. 

The five of us are wearing white jumpsuits, gloves, and masks. We do not slam the buttons. We do not press them with more than one finger. We press our buttons every five seconds.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

PRESS THE BUTTON!... We press it… PRESS THE BUTTON!... We press it... PRESS THE BUTTON!... We press it…

My button sinks into the pole and vanishes.

PRESS THE BUTTON!

I try to press the empty pole. I hear a different red sound that is redder than the first. It’s a continuous, piercing drone. 

I bend down and look around the pole for the button. It’s not there. Once I stand back up, I look at my coworkers. They’re staring at me with anger on their faces. 

I point at the button-less pole, but they keep staring. Tapping the top of the pole doesn’t change their current opinion of me either. Their bodies tighten and their hands turn to fists. I tense up and my heart races.

They walk forward. I can run. I don’t run. The first punch connects with the back of my head. The first kick connects with my stomach. I can crouch down. I can protect myself. I don’t. 

The hits come from all directions. I don’t think about the pain. I only wonder if this one will be longer or shorter than the others.