Everything Must Go
A department store is in its final stages of life, the once cluttered floors now left empty, save for a few pieces in various sections that never found a new home.
Signs throughout the store whisper its final words: “EVERYTHING MUST GO.” The floor, once bustling with shoppers, is now a wasteland of white tiles that reflect the fluorescent lights that shine above them.
Carpeted floors denote where selections of goods resided, in a multitude of styles: black, striped black, and brown. The black carpet masquerades as pristine; in contrast, the brown carpet is particularly unkempt and grimy to the touch.
The walls match the tiled floor, being painted in an all-white colour scheme, the scent of stale air and decaying adhesive accompanying it. Various support pillars climb from the floor to the ceiling, occasionally bearing a reflective base.
Old ventilation ducts blow musty, cold air through the store, breathing in their own way, with the faint buzzing of various fluorescent lights serving as the pulse of the decaying building.
Intercoms and security cameras forever stand on guard, a panopticon with no one to watch, no one to speak, and no one to listen. Forever waiting for the day the store opens its doors again.
Arrows marking the floor guide those to new areas of the store; the only items left in stock are clothing items like hats/shirts and larger, difficult to move items such as desks, shelving, dressers, tables, and storage units.
Lamps light up the desolate showrooms, a thin layer of dust coating the open surfaces, and miscellaneous debris scattered across the floors: wrappers, torn-off pieces of carpet, chipped paint and ceiling tiles have fallen to the floor.
Metal shopping carts are deserted throughout the store, with no one to bring them home. The familiar sound of the rolling wheels heard in the distant somewhere.
Unmarked doors dot the walls, their signage removed, but their purpose not forgotten.
Employee lounges with couches and still-dripping coffee machines, storage rooms filled with the scent of freshly opened cardboard boxes and packing peanuts, and empty shelving laid end to end—everything moved out for the final sale.
Directional signage points toward escalators that are always leading to higher or lower floors. No matter how often you descend, another floor waits below, the layout familiar but slightly off each time.
Glowing exit signs guide those lost towards an apparent freedom. Checkouts are unmanned, and detectors loudly proclaim you haven’t paid, but there’s no one to stop you, except a large steel gate in place of an exit.
Everything Must Go was written by
Ferrante, with critique from
HidandSeek,
ArcheNegation and
Aequilibrium. The images used inside the article were taken by