The Backrooms

Some places are large and hardly unassuming, such as The City, with all of its intricacies. Others, though small, still possess a level of significance. Rooms are only stains amidst spaces so barren and static, so uniform and alien despite their multiplicity. Some of these peculiar spots are human-made, but the origins of most remains uncertain. Some serve as a rendez-vous, others bask in their quiet. Some lie inert in areas that have not been touched in decades, others observe attentively. Some care little about humanity, others wait for it. This one, however, fits none of these descriptions.

For years, my job had been to put an end to the atrocities perpetrated by this place, by the spaces that lie on the back of our minds. Now that even the last corner of normality faded, where is trust? Where is, in the end, the spark of familiarity that had once plagued these realms? Truth is, normality never reigns alone. Absurdity is its most loyal partner. They make sense of each other. They contemplate the next occasion they get to clash. In these otherwordly realms, normality takes the role of appearance while absurdity controls the substance, but neither is ever truly alone.

When a lonely salon appears in the middle of the night, closed, untouched, it is best to look away. If it is everywhere, it is nowhere. If it is nowhere, one's notions lose meaning as do one's senses.

Never judge an anomaly by its vessel. Two forces must balance their torques or consequences, slowly but surely, shall demolish staticity once and for all.

Something ominous is stirring. The cracks upon the ceiling form a cloudy mist of paint. The longer I stare into them, the more patterns turn up. It is calming, certainly, but intermittently the thought of the last few days shuts my eyes. The previous mission had been an inexcusable disaster, no doubt: from regular wounds to broken bones, my colleagues had felt it all. While they were travelling, I was dealing with an infected scar—surely nasty, but insignificant compared to their hardships.

Indeed, all they needed was one more man, a single calling voice, and they would have been rescued much sooner. The reality, of course, is that my research is a constant call for answers that would never catch a break. I could have definitely paused it for a few days, but that would have surely missed the deadline, accomplishing nothing.

It is pointless to ponder about my past actions. This morning shall be tense, but a sense of anticipation overwhelms it all. It does not matter whether it is a pile of papers or a swarm of entities that takes my life. It does not matter how this situation is resolved. I shall find amongst the mass the solution, like a stubborn cubic, an ugly polynomial, a function plotting against me. Just two more hours, just two grueling hours and this train of thought shall reach its destination. Stay focused, Martin. With that, I get up and start working, the street slowly filling up.

A crowd has gathered around the mysterious shop. They disrupt the calm of the neighborhood, but very little could compete with the neon sign. It is blinding at every point in the day, a burn on the urban carcass. These barren salons litter the place, but they never outnumber their watchful spectators. A couple folks stand at the back of the mass with a stare so piercing it could tear one apart. Others close-by hack at glass panes with the ferocity of a bull.

Several images cover the windows, some showing hairstyles, others postcards of various landscapes, equally gorgeous. The middle of the crowd finds itself stranded in the epicentre of an earthquake of hysteria, flung across the mass, nearly dismembered. As they fall silent, clients form a waiting line, not wasting a moment. The doors remain shut, but these folks find their skulls locked in place by impatience and curiosity. Even as I march down the road, their eyes refuse to blink. Their silence persists as they are forcefully removed by various colleagues.

There was plenty of activity on their part in the last few days. Every time one entered, a new haircut would manifest, oddly marvelous, but what are they trying to achieve? Is this all a search for their ideal trim? Is it something more sinister, to the point they can no longer explain their thoughts? Sometimes quiet results more revealing than words.

Still, that can only get my reasoning so far. They were shouting of shivers, of things crawling on one's spine, of wonders of the mind. Is it a search for aesthetic "greatness?" Whatever the case, their routine must come to an end for the moment. The experiment I am going to perform shall answer all these questions, but I, rather than the scientist, will have to be its test subject.

After the area had been prepared, journalists of various affiliations were let in. As one would expect, they released quite the horde of questions—some about this investigation, particularly its motives, its preparation—, but none addressing my well-being; I accept this. This mass of strangers is not here to comfort the guinea pig. They are performing their duties, so I shall perform mine. They are utterly clueless about the risk I am taking. The crowd, on the other hand, knows all too well. All these trims and haircuts expose rather than cover, but who am I to judge their doings? At this moment I am in no position to shout. I have my own wounds, deep under my scalp, to take care of. No matter how much I try to cover them, they will keep bleeding, with my deepest sense of loathing crawling out into the light, screaming like a solifuge. There is, however, no room for empathy—twisted, not genuine. As far as I am concerned, the people of the crowd are not human, but silent statues. Their obsession with preserving their beauty in marble shall not bring me down.

I am handed over a piece of armory—outdated, but it will suffice. My colleagues, the same I betrayed, lie in contempt. Who needs words when the past is there to serve as a reminder? Looking behind me, the shop seems just the same—messy, but clean from debris. A darkened hunch, however, lays suspition—it is the backdoor, ever-so slightly open, with plenty of dust sitting beyond. Inspections are over; this is it—a deep breath and it will be all set. The doors open, closing behind me one final time.

The inside, as expected, is bare—crowded with tools, but bare. It is at this point that a frigid sensation of some kind dampens my skin. The cables are virtually everywhere; I cannot avoid them. They are inert, motionless, and so seems everything else. Clips, razors, scissors—everything is stuck in place, either glued or frozen. There is something about their appearance—perhaps their colours—that drains the eyes, eventually escalating into a mild migraine.

I instinctively count the scissors one-by-one—two, four, six, eight—, but some kind of stain on their metal is rather distracting. I lose count once, twice, three times, always at an odd number that just makes its way into my thoughts. I count two, four, six, eight, nine—no, ten—nine again. I try to focus on the remaining appliances. The razors and clips seem unchanged, but they do not help me recover from the throb, gradually accelerating.

There is a chair in the middle of the room, a relatively clear path leading towards it amongst the cables. It is white, plastic material, sturdy. I sit, only to find the outside world cut away, its image seemingly sawed with a blade out of my line of sight. In its place lies a bundle of familiar patterns—a road, a window, a building all shining at once, pushing with great force on my retinas, the pressure minuscule, the confusion great. The sphere atop me shines, the barbershop lit to the brim. Reflective surfaces echo in disdain for my presence. I get up to avoid looking into the light, the back of the shop seeming darker, but blocked off by cables, solid as steel coils.

I feel the need to sit down. I need to tamper with the seats. Their support shall comfort me.

I had not quite noticed this when I first looked into these mirrors. My reflection, as with any other object in range of this surface, feels both familiar and foreign. Wrinkles are all the more absent. This expression, neutral, is not felt, but something about the surroundings makes this all the less strange. It is oddly comforting, as though I had been looking into a bent surface all the while. My blonde hair folds tirelessly amidst metallic tools of all kinds, cut in all sorts of ways. A cut here, a doubt there—minutes pass by, unnoticed.

As the mass gets thinner and thinner, I begin to notice a strange profile developing. The upper curvature of my skull is astonishing, more vivid now than ever before. Coupled with the shape of my nose, it renders my face all the more grotesque at a glance, though my brown eyes mitigate the effect. Perhaps, a few more cuts in the middle should revert this, restoring the original asymmetry I am accustomed with.

No sound finds its way out of my mouth. Lips are sealed shut, the seat stuck. Vulnerability and embarassment gradually assimilate reason, yet I am adorned. A razor makes a sudden turn, but the hope of reversal is shattered as it heads towards the back of my head. A portable mirror, held by cables, allows me to vaguely make out the behind, a regular pattern, almost web-like, having developed.

My reflection on the larger surface also changed, quite evidently. Within the last few seconds, my hair reduced its volume by a third, its shape almost fiery. No, it is not fiery, but the whim of the bald seagull animates its stillness. It is not only puzzling, but frightening, more eccentric than a planetoid on its way to the Oort Cloud. Every trajectory, every path shines amongst the golden ellipses, distorting as more images press on the skull from inside out. A throbbing headache ensues.

Wonders of the mind—yes, this is what I had been told would manifest. It is only now that, without doubt, I find out. Something is certain—for the first time, piece by piece, my hair will lose its space, but not its presence.

The shape that developed afterwards formed a shadow with corners so sharp it could saw my scalp in half, a void pyramid. A fountain of absurdity now springs above me, reflections clashing into the mist of flair and hair. Rebellion would have been worthless, the cables having circumnavigated my body whole, instantaneously. Five rings of plastic hold a worn-out waist as well as two compressed arms in place. I am released again, the migraine having escalated, my skull aching erratically—merciful, all of it. Off the seat I go, rambling about a presence that pretends to be. This time, I manage to shout, but all I can muster is incoherent speech, maundering about anything that comes to mind.

The sphere still shines, but it may as well have been plunged in darkness. Nothing is blinding, not anymore. My discourse is bare, just like the room, so convinced in its nonsense that I turn pale myself as I realise. I continue regardless, filing a compliant with no end.

A breach in convention has just occurred, politeness as a whole relinquished. Pressure increases, its gradient directionless, the effect homogenous across my flesh and bones. Who I am yelling at, I do not know, their existence seemingly warranted, obvious even. Sight blurs gradually—once again expected, predictable, but out of control. There is, however, an area that refuses to turn opaque: the back. The wall of plastic veins is gone, revealing a corridor short and barren. Now comes wickedness, unrestrained.

The entrance having sealed shut again, a rampaging show of colours and reflections stands before me. It was this that earlier stood on the back of my mind. It was this that let me amidst the clouds of my room's ceiling. It was this that had thrown irrelevance out of the window. This is it—absurdity, pure, and I abhor it. Furnishings of fibers form contours so overarching that they almost hide their physical vacuity. Notes are strapped all over, lists of behaviours and facial features cascading from the top.

These colours and perfumes remind of persons that once worked in cities and suburbs, the smells of said places echoing once more. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—they are all here, their bodies disposed of in some unfathomable mist that obfuscates the far end of the hallway.

I lie still for six excruciating seconds, a truce of sorts. Then, a new feeling clashes with the eyelids, tucked in the idea that any stain could be a face, screaming amongst golden and dark lines. It is certain that something is being moulded, something about my eyes and my deeper nerves. It will not last, but it is all mattering less, the consciousness saturated. Lying under the dazzling light bouncing on top of surfaces—dispersed but never dissolved—I can only perceive so much at once.

A fragment of the mass atop my skull reaches out for the scaffolding, its fibers holding a paper in place. Drops begin to litter the white with unmistakable stains of black, a familiar face being drawn and schematised. I cannot describe it, but its proportions could only consist in a reflection of my old self.

It is studying. It has been studying the normal and the quasi-normal, the nature of the human mind and its inner scars, its deepest grievances pointed at the conscious. It only needs to decide whether to free or tear into me, its attentiveness hiding its indecision.

It is staring back, but why would it? It is I, Martin. There is nothing else it could stare into.
A beam of tools begins to chase my line of sight, the danger of cuts and cascades of fluid persecuting my imagination. It is after this image that, for a fleeting moment, I perceive my hurried self shove his body across the crackling backdoor. A dusty hallway lies upfront, leading to light, my neck and arms folding as everything goes black.

It was a short rest. The wooden corridor clutches the room with a half-full turn, the rotten planks creaking with every step. Humidity, having woken me yet weighing on my lungs, sticks to my face. My hair had been moulded again, now a molten blob that barely clings onto my skull. This is it—relief, but it only gets so far. The same eyes that had looked into me within the core of absurdity wrinkle amidst the wood, knots folding into eyelids, pupils and even lips.

I could almost feel their cries, if theirs at all. "Feel" and not "see"—no pattern changes, but the dots connect differently, the lines invisible as hair. Any fold, any wiggly line or symbol helplessly shows the same tragedy, the same test subjects that, unlike me, needed to be assimilated. This tornado of planks and beams whose air is littered with spores proceeds slowly around the shop, dragging my legs backwards. Despite this, the walk stops after a few metres, a hole on the rear end leading to an alleyway.

The main street is emptier that before, further empovrished by the remaining crowd, now much more sensible. Before I can reach the door to my apartment, they confront me. Their homes being too far away, I welcome the four of them for lunch. At the table, each one tells a story, not too different from my own. It is only when they try to describe their feelings that their heads fold foward in shame. At the end of the day, who could blame them? We have all been humiliated, our eyes watery at the mere thought of having complied with the murderer. At the end of the storytelling, we decide to change topic and enjoy the meal, rich in flavour. By the next four hours or so, my visions had quietened.

As my guests continue minding their business, I go back to my desk. A pile of folders sits on the left-hand side while various books litter the right. Before I start working, a title catches my attention—"The Physics of the Backrooms: A Unified View" by William of Yorkshire. I had read the first half several months back, mostly pertaining to the nature of levels per se and how we think they exist. It would be the other chapters to discuss the nature of phenomena.

A short section about ten pages in total, ignored until now, talks about the 'forces,' intended figuratively, 'that govern the deviation of the Backrooms' laws of nature from our own.' The book later explains that these "forces," namely normality and absurdity, are purely theoretical concepts that, in essence, shape any realm's stability. In any case, most ideas in this book are nothing new to me. Thus, I go back to work.

It is only now that I realise why I could endure nine-fifteen the easiest. This pile is a reminder that all research I do involves either soul-crushing events or the loss of well-acquainted colleagues. It is all I hear about these days, only tragedies upon bitter endings that do not improve our state. Most afternoons proceed smoothly, easily dismissing these tales as everyday affairs, yet I could not bring myself to rummage through them this evening.

Even though I know there exist stories out there that end in a hug, in serenity and calm, none of them have come to my desk. My assignments, my analyses are just chapters of a tragedy so convoluted it should be thrown away.

Had my sister never departed, I would have had at present the company of the only one left from an Earthly family. My eye sockets would have retained their regular size. Today I would be writing novels for my own sake. Instead, I am chasing after rent in a home that at times feels barren and foreign, an apartment moist and moldy.

My trip down the memory lane surely has not eased my job. It would be best to put aside this part of my past. No matter how long the break, it would lead me back here. At this point, it is best if I just try to write down today's studies. It should only take a couple of hours to have this all on my notes.

"… Normality is thus defined as the percentage of the previously listed laws that have been carried from our world. Absurdity, on the other hand, comprises the principles that were altered either via physical or hallucinatory means. While it is true that most levels tend towards favouring the former, an excessively high ratio might cause them to lose connection with the rest of the Backrooms. Likewise, too much absurdity may induce the examined realm to, in a way, corrupt, shedding its physical core in favour of abnormal effects, eventually leading it to 'implode' or otherwise become inaccessible."

"For instance, a level whose propagation of light follows an "Inverse Cube Law" of sorts would certainly prove fatal to any ordinary matter, as molecular bonds would be fundamentally altered. To this day…"

This is beyond tiring. I had opened this piece expecting a clear explanation of all the jargon concerning the phenomena I dealt with. Instead, I have been greeted with even more problems that I cannot relate to my experience. Several years have passed since I quit working alongside William, yet none of this wants to come back to mind.

It would all be so much simpler had he been more present! There would be far more colleagues, more opportunities, fewer disasters such as this and the previous time. We keep forgetting our purpose as researchers, explorers, managers, artisans. We continue to drift in a vague sense of familiarity that is only holding us back from a real victory. What can we truly, unquestionably accomplish this way?

For a moment, I even pondered to invite the four guests to come along, but it could not be more inappropriate. They might be young, but nothing excludes they may have families or undesirable connections. Anything that would pertain to tackling nine-fifteen's perimetres only seems like a pipe dream.

In any case, I decide they shall be welcomed for the night. But before I can proceed with my offer, they call me over, several drawings and schemes now littering the otherwise pristine table. Fortunately, they manage to distract me with a seemingly absurd proposal to secure nine-fifteen permanently. I ask them to delay this discussion until the next day, but they insist.

'Just cover the thing in red stripes. You think the neighbors ain't gonna notice that?'

'Let's just sort this out with the big groups here. They seem to know their stuff, at least better than you do, bucko.'

This and several, more naive proposals undergo our evaluation. Even the smallest spaces manage to find a use; nine-fifteen would surely not be spared. Despite knowing this, I could not bring myself to be direct, their plans overwhelming my already insufferable mind.

The room quiets down until, all of a sudden, the remaining two guests raise their voices in unison.

'Do you have any gasoline?'

As with any other problem above amateur level, I had forgotten the original question.

Martin: Hey, man, congrats! Enjoying the celebrations?

William: I am. Thank you so much for the cheesecake. You really do care! Do you know what's all that smoke in the distance?

Martin: The candl— cough

William: Mh?!

Martin: Nothing. Happy birthday.