Wall of a Thousand Stories

John needs to use the washroom.

He pulled into the little parking lot of the gas station and went into the first spot he saw. All he had to get were some bread, milk, and eggs and he'd be out of there in a flash. He walked quickly inside and his head snapped from side to side trying to find what was needed. He dashed towards the milk and had it in his hand when his gut suddenly dropped on him. He clenched his butt cheeks as he chicken-walked his way over to the washroom.

He slammed the door shut, opened the toilet lid, dropped his pants, and sat down. The toilet felt wet like someone had pissed all over it; he hoped it wasn't that. The only light source came from a single fluorescent light in the middle of the room, flickering, failing, giving the room an otherworldly atmosphere. It looked dilapidated.

While relieving himself, his attention steered towards the wall beside him. There was graffiti all over it written in what appeared to be marker or something like that. Some of it read John= Dumbass, F**k Jews, I hate this world, I'm taking my guns to school, I hope John gets a knife up his a*s, All arabs should die, Nazis rule!, among other things. There was an especially long one that wrote: There is a worm burrowing in my head, he plants the seeds that make me think of despair, of violence. I want to get rid of him. He is crawling just underneath my skin. I will get rid of him, no matter what it takes. That last one made him feel quite uncomfortable with where he was.

He noticed just then that it smelled like bleach. He wondered what they had cleaned up in here, he couldn't notice anything else. Then his eyes fell on the sink in front of him as well as the wall beside it. There were faint stains of red all over the sink as well as specks of brown and black everywhere; it made the sink look crusty. He shuddered to think of what happened before.

There was a leak in the ceiling that kept dripping water making a "plop" sound every time the drops became the pool of water beneath. It was making him feel agitated. He wanted it to stop. One of the ceiling tiles appeared to had been taken down to repair the leak but it looked like it was never gotten around to.

Finally finished he flushed and got some toilet paper. It felt like sandpaper to him as he wiped. He flushed and flushed once again as he continued wiping and he stopped when brown gave way to red. It felt raw.

He looked in the mirror. It was grimy and in the light, the reflection took on a sinister look like it was somehow distorted. The knobs on the sink didn't release any water until they were turned all the way where it al came out at full blast. There was almost no soap in the bottle and had to be poured out onto his hands which was more than likely just washed away by the torrent rushing forth.

He opened the door, quickly got what he needed and walked out. He would never return there again.