The mall is empty. A couple was holding hands around the corner, though… Right? No. When you turn the corner, all that remains are empty rooms; the room entrances are sealed by chain-link fences. Every turn is an opportunity lost: a nail parlor doubling as a house of mirrors; a food court missing tables and chairs; an old T-Mobile store with its lights turned off. T-Mobile looks more like a candy store. Its bright pink signage would attract children if not for the mechanical, boring presentation. Every store is an appendage that lost its function years ago, but where is the heart? Is the heart still beating? Entering the mall further presents no evidence of any rhyme or reason for us being here, except for a trip down memory lane, and it needs some dusting.
As we walk through the cavity together, I reach out my hand to clutch yours: the only tangible thing in this place, and the only thing I’ll be leaving with once this fever dream is over. Please, don’t let go of my hand. I’m worried that I’ll be left behind. I’m worried that I’ll be left behind, sitting alone on a chair in the middle of a desolate room. Someone with a heavy ring of keys will walk over, shaking their head at me. A large grate will rattle before slamming shut on the floor; the keys jangling one last time as the fence is locked shut. I almost let go again while the fear crept through my subconscious—the mind is a haunting thing if you let it take control of your body. I appreciate you pulling me out of this place. Please, I don’t want to be alone here.
Continuing forward, I see one dimly lit room ahead. It’s in the center of a large, abandoned courtyard. Inside the room stands a large, tall person. He has long, matted hair that falls over his face in chunks so that I cannot make out his features. He moves his head back and forth in herky-jerky motions—like he’s dancing to music that only he can hear, but the music is atonal, featuring an inconsistent tempo. But his ragged breathing is the only sound in this place. He’s lost in his own world. I can’t help but approach and watch this person. You caution against me getting closer, but I’m very anxious to see him; do I know him? I can’t get a good look, though, so I slowly back away from the box containing this performer, who is engrossed by something that only he can hear in this dusty mall.
As we approach the exit, I look back a final time and notice that the figure has stopped dancing, and he has his hands on his face; he appears distraught, but I cannot tell if he’s only rubbing his eyes.