Partly Cloudy, 64°
In the third-floor hallway in Bronson, surrounded by broken plastic and phallic-shaped graffiti, hangs a lone exit sign, the only survivor of a raid upon Keeney Quad last Saturday night.
“I’m not even an important exit sign,” blubbered the surviving sign, choking back tears. “Some of these guys were right in front of high-traffic doors! I’m young, I don’t have a family to go back to. Why couldn’t I have been broken instead of Johnson so his little light fixtures could grow up having a father?”
“There used to be twenty exits in Keeney,” he continued. “There technically still are, but you’d never know it. Only five are clearly marked now. If I had done my job better, those kids would have left and my fifteen friends would still be here.”
Though not physically broken, the reality of the surviving sign’s fate has left him an emotional wreck. “I just don’t know if I can call myself an exit sign any more,” he soberly noted, appealing to the heavens. “How can I show people where to exit if I didn’t even exit this world when I was supposed to?”
