A Dystopian Future in Which Donald Trump is Supreme Overlord- a work-in-progress story

this is all i have written so far and i just wanted to post it so i'm not super inactive. please enjoy (and if you can, offer some constructive criticism!) keep in mind that this is partially satire.

The hallways resembled a high school’s, almost, except there were no lockers, no lively crowds, zero creativity booming from the youth, and no juicy knowledge flowing from a teacher’s lecture. Instead they were empty and gloomy, the air was stale, and the cheap recessed fluorescent ceiling lights flickered every now and again. 

Throughout the dusty corridors, there were large rooms with a wide range of purposes. A few rooms were churches, however, sadly, there were no mosques, as the law forbid them. Some rooms were small markets, selling non-perishable foods, indoor-raised meat, and lab-grown veggies, because the earth outside was too contaminated to raise foods. There was also a school in the building; though only three teachers. One for math, one for reading-writing, and the other for religion study. The subjects of science and history were banned. Because of the shortage of teachers and lack of government funding in education, the classrooms were terribly overcrowded, with children of all ages.
Among the many different types of rooms, the most important rooms were called the Habitation Dwellings. These are where every single one the 546,000 surviving citizens of the Fascist States of America lived under the protection of cinderblock walls separating them from the uninhabitable outdoors of what remained of nature.
It was the year 2036, and Spencer Ambrose has not seen the sun since 2027, the year when the earth decayed to the point where nobody could survive outside of a Government Protection Facility. He worked in a sleazy, headache-inducing art studio, the air saturated with the fumes of paint, no ventilation available.
Along the walls there were various paintings of what nature used to be. Golden autumn trees, gorgeous wine-red roses, and scenes of a snowy winter. Spencer tried his damndest to keep the memory of nature’s beauty alive, and yet, with every new painting, the scenes got duller, just like the images fading from the 36 year-old artist’s memory.
The man slowly rose from the creaky metal stool upon which he sat, dizzy from the fumes that caused a constant light-headedness. He moseyed over to the sink and turned the faucet, running a paintbrush under the pathetic stream of lukewarm water. After the color finally bled out from the brush, he placed it in a cup, bristle-end up to dry. He turned around and approached the door, but a distant shout stopped him in his tracks.
Echos of a coarse, booming scream reverberated through the building. He knew what was going on, and he dared not to step outside the studio. This meant that someone broke a law, and was being served their punishment; release.
Now, any person fifteen years ago would think release meant freedom and safety, however, an american today expects only horror from the once-empowering word. This punishment was essentially the death penalty, because anyone who is sentenced to release, is thrown out of the Government Protection Facility, into the polluted and uninhabitable environment that is our planet Earth.
As the screams neared, Spencer held his breath and clutched the door handle, body completely still as if the frigid metal door handle froze over his entire being.
When the horrid shouts finally drowned out of hearing range, the artist finally gained feeling in his fingers, and found the strength to push the heavy door. Poking his head out, he saw the hallway was as gloomy as ever. People shuffled by, but nobody spoke. The atmosphere was drained of bustle and conversation as usual.
One swift foot after another, Spencer walked fast-paced towards his habitation dwelling in the northeast side of the facility. He only focused on the cracked tile floor in front of his eyes, until he zoned out enough that he could imagine he was gliding in the air, which was a common fantasy he has.

After the lengthy walk, Spencer retrieved a key from the pocket of his boot-cut jeans and approached a metal door, much like the one on his art studio. He inserted the key, turned it, and entered, immediately setting his eyes on a green-eyed, short-haired, black cat that balanced on the backrest of a wooden chair across from the door. As he closed the door behind him, the black cat chirped, jumped down from the chair, then bounded over to her owner, rubbing her cheek on his legs. Typical cat behavior.
“Okay, Cynthia, it’s not time to eat yet.” Spencer walked ahead, trying to avoid stepping on his cat. She was always under his feet, resulting in many instances of a tail or paw getting stepped on.
The artist strode to the couch and plopped his bottom onto the cushions, getting a physical sinking-feeling as he laid back and became one with the old sofa. Cynthia hopped up onto his lap, making herself comfortable as well.