static_abyss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
static_abyss) wrote2022-06-03 11:43 pm
static_abyss) wrote2022-06-03 11:43 pm
LJ Idol 2022: Week 9
There is a room in my brain that I cannot enter.
To get there, I must close my eyes and picture the wooden door with its golden handle on the right. The first door is always a dark brown, its edges blending with the surrounding walls, the color getting darker the further left and right it extends until the walls dissolve into darkness. There is nothing behind me and nothing to my sides. There is only this wooden door with its golden handle. When I open it, the first thing I see are handrails and six steps.
I know there is a wall to my left. I know there is a corridor to my right at the bottom of the stairs. But I cannot see these things. I only know they are there because something tells me they are there. I take the stairs, always making sure that I count the steps. I do not know what would happen if I didn't count. I don't think I want to know.
When I get to six, I have two choices. I can make my way to the tall red door in front of me. Out to the front porch of an old wooden cottage. If I take the red door, I will come to a beautiful golden field of wheat. There's a bridge in the middle of that field, which means there must be a river that cuts across it. But I never see the river when I make my way through that field, past that bridge.
There is a black mansion on the other side of that bridge. It stands tall and imposing, its door opening for me as I make my way to the entrance. This door is black also, with an arch over the top and brass handles. I never touch this door. It is always open when I come to it.
If I go inside the mansion, I can never get past the first few steps. The sun is never strong enough to illuminate more than that. I know there are rooms in that mansion. I know there are stairs. Perhaps there are even other people in there. But I can never see them. I can never make myself walk past the light.
When I leave, I take the same path back, over the wooden bridge that keeps me dry from the nonexistent river. The wheat never cuts me as I cross that field. The sun's never hotter than it needs to be. I can always find my way back to the cottage, inside the doors, back up the steps, out into the real world.
I've never tried exploring either house before. I told myself it wasn't worth it, that there are some things I'm not meant to know.
Then there are times, like today, when I tell myself that it's better to know what's in there, to know every inch of my mind, that keeping secrets never ends well.
I close my eyes and my hands touch the first door with its golden doorknob. It falls away easily, opening up to a small landing, as though I've come out of a room on the second floor directly onto the landing of the stairs leading down to the first floor. I don't hold onto the handrail, just count in my head, imagining the wooden steps as I go, pretending I don't know there are more rooms in this house.
I make it to the bottom, to the red door. This time, I don't go towards it right away. There's a second door in this first house. It's to my right, down the dark little corridor that's been there since I first found this place.
She guards it.
I don't know her name, only that she's blonde and older than me, and that I can never quite make out her face.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
Her voice echoes, an odd little distortion in her words that reminds me she's just in my head.
"I know there's another door," I say.
She watches me with her brown eyes. I can't remember if she wears glasses, but part of me thinks she must. I wear glasses and as a part of me, so must she.
"You don't want to do that," she tells me.
I can see a light at the end of that corridor, now, as though her presence in my mind has made the house a little sharper, bringing it just a smidge into focus. I can tell there's a living room behind me, to the left of the stairs. I know there's a coffee table in there, papers on top, a sofa pushed right by the window. I don't have to turn around to see it. I don't think I could even if I wanted to.
"What's behind the door?" I ask.
She doesn't blink. She hasn't since we've started talking.
"You don't want to know," she tells me, her voice going soft at the end.
I wonder why I'm not afraid of her, why I trust her so implicitly. I don't know her.
Curiosity is a strange thing, I think.
I haven't said the words aloud but I know she can hear them. She is in my brain after all. Wherever we are, this is still a part of me and she is a part of me also. I know all the things in this house are mine, that the little bits of memories scattered all over are waiting for me to gather them. This first house contains all the vestiges of my childhood, those memories I've locked away for my own good.
I know without anyone having to tell me that what's behind the door at the end of the corridor is what made this place in my mind a necessity. I know that if I want to see, she will let me. I know she wishes I would just let it go.
"What if it's important?" I ask her.
She steps aside without a word and I can see all the way down that corridor, right down to where the door is now ajar. There's yellow light flooding into the hall. I can just about make the beginning of a kitchen, the white refrigerator and the counters, those black and white tiles we used to have in the apartment we lived in when I was five.
I have to know what's behind the door.
"Go," she tells me. "I won't stop you."
I know that kitchen. It was laid out in an L, the counters and the refrigerator immediately to the left when you first walked in. To the right was the stove, the sink, more counters and finally, our kitchen table. I know there was a window at the end of the longest part of the L, and next to those windows was a door that led to our living room.
I know something happened in that kitchen. I know that if I go through those doors, I'll know what it was.
I think of all the things I cannot bring myself to do, the people I don't allow near me. I think of the way my body rejects the idea of physical intimacy, the way I shake with terror when things get too loud. I want to know what happened, why there are two houses in my mind, why they're covered in darkness.
"I'm not stopping you," she says.
In the end, I don't walk down that corridor. I don't walk out the red door. I take the stairs back up, count six steps, out through the first door, back to the real world. I open my eyes to a distorted reality, my body not quite right.
I don't come back alone.
We spend a few days in a body that is not quite ours, sharing space in a world that's usually only meant for me. She doesn't say anything, just watches as I go about my day. Once, she asks if I can get a hug from my mother even though she knows I usually can't bring myself to touch my mother. But she hasn't pushed me to do things I don't want to do and in exchange, I indulge her. After all, I've brought her here and it's the least I can do.
She leaves after the hug and it's as though I'm again allowed to stretch out into my body. I wait a few days to make sure she's really gone before I go looking for her. Curiosity and all that.
I close my eyes, go through the door, down those steps. There's the big red door in front of me and the corridor to my right. She's there again, right by the door, the light from the kitchen spilling into the corridor. She doesn't say anything. I don't say anything.
We both know that curious though I may be, I will never go through that door.
To get there, I must close my eyes and picture the wooden door with its golden handle on the right. The first door is always a dark brown, its edges blending with the surrounding walls, the color getting darker the further left and right it extends until the walls dissolve into darkness. There is nothing behind me and nothing to my sides. There is only this wooden door with its golden handle. When I open it, the first thing I see are handrails and six steps.
I know there is a wall to my left. I know there is a corridor to my right at the bottom of the stairs. But I cannot see these things. I only know they are there because something tells me they are there. I take the stairs, always making sure that I count the steps. I do not know what would happen if I didn't count. I don't think I want to know.
When I get to six, I have two choices. I can make my way to the tall red door in front of me. Out to the front porch of an old wooden cottage. If I take the red door, I will come to a beautiful golden field of wheat. There's a bridge in the middle of that field, which means there must be a river that cuts across it. But I never see the river when I make my way through that field, past that bridge.
There is a black mansion on the other side of that bridge. It stands tall and imposing, its door opening for me as I make my way to the entrance. This door is black also, with an arch over the top and brass handles. I never touch this door. It is always open when I come to it.
If I go inside the mansion, I can never get past the first few steps. The sun is never strong enough to illuminate more than that. I know there are rooms in that mansion. I know there are stairs. Perhaps there are even other people in there. But I can never see them. I can never make myself walk past the light.
When I leave, I take the same path back, over the wooden bridge that keeps me dry from the nonexistent river. The wheat never cuts me as I cross that field. The sun's never hotter than it needs to be. I can always find my way back to the cottage, inside the doors, back up the steps, out into the real world.
I've never tried exploring either house before. I told myself it wasn't worth it, that there are some things I'm not meant to know.
Then there are times, like today, when I tell myself that it's better to know what's in there, to know every inch of my mind, that keeping secrets never ends well.
I close my eyes and my hands touch the first door with its golden doorknob. It falls away easily, opening up to a small landing, as though I've come out of a room on the second floor directly onto the landing of the stairs leading down to the first floor. I don't hold onto the handrail, just count in my head, imagining the wooden steps as I go, pretending I don't know there are more rooms in this house.
I make it to the bottom, to the red door. This time, I don't go towards it right away. There's a second door in this first house. It's to my right, down the dark little corridor that's been there since I first found this place.
She guards it.
I don't know her name, only that she's blonde and older than me, and that I can never quite make out her face.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
Her voice echoes, an odd little distortion in her words that reminds me she's just in my head.
"I know there's another door," I say.
She watches me with her brown eyes. I can't remember if she wears glasses, but part of me thinks she must. I wear glasses and as a part of me, so must she.
"You don't want to do that," she tells me.
I can see a light at the end of that corridor, now, as though her presence in my mind has made the house a little sharper, bringing it just a smidge into focus. I can tell there's a living room behind me, to the left of the stairs. I know there's a coffee table in there, papers on top, a sofa pushed right by the window. I don't have to turn around to see it. I don't think I could even if I wanted to.
"What's behind the door?" I ask.
She doesn't blink. She hasn't since we've started talking.
"You don't want to know," she tells me, her voice going soft at the end.
I wonder why I'm not afraid of her, why I trust her so implicitly. I don't know her.
Curiosity is a strange thing, I think.
I haven't said the words aloud but I know she can hear them. She is in my brain after all. Wherever we are, this is still a part of me and she is a part of me also. I know all the things in this house are mine, that the little bits of memories scattered all over are waiting for me to gather them. This first house contains all the vestiges of my childhood, those memories I've locked away for my own good.
I know without anyone having to tell me that what's behind the door at the end of the corridor is what made this place in my mind a necessity. I know that if I want to see, she will let me. I know she wishes I would just let it go.
"What if it's important?" I ask her.
She steps aside without a word and I can see all the way down that corridor, right down to where the door is now ajar. There's yellow light flooding into the hall. I can just about make the beginning of a kitchen, the white refrigerator and the counters, those black and white tiles we used to have in the apartment we lived in when I was five.
I have to know what's behind the door.
"Go," she tells me. "I won't stop you."
I know that kitchen. It was laid out in an L, the counters and the refrigerator immediately to the left when you first walked in. To the right was the stove, the sink, more counters and finally, our kitchen table. I know there was a window at the end of the longest part of the L, and next to those windows was a door that led to our living room.
I know something happened in that kitchen. I know that if I go through those doors, I'll know what it was.
I think of all the things I cannot bring myself to do, the people I don't allow near me. I think of the way my body rejects the idea of physical intimacy, the way I shake with terror when things get too loud. I want to know what happened, why there are two houses in my mind, why they're covered in darkness.
"I'm not stopping you," she says.
In the end, I don't walk down that corridor. I don't walk out the red door. I take the stairs back up, count six steps, out through the first door, back to the real world. I open my eyes to a distorted reality, my body not quite right.
I don't come back alone.
We spend a few days in a body that is not quite ours, sharing space in a world that's usually only meant for me. She doesn't say anything, just watches as I go about my day. Once, she asks if I can get a hug from my mother even though she knows I usually can't bring myself to touch my mother. But she hasn't pushed me to do things I don't want to do and in exchange, I indulge her. After all, I've brought her here and it's the least I can do.
She leaves after the hug and it's as though I'm again allowed to stretch out into my body. I wait a few days to make sure she's really gone before I go looking for her. Curiosity and all that.
I close my eyes, go through the door, down those steps. There's the big red door in front of me and the corridor to my right. She's there again, right by the door, the light from the kitchen spilling into the corridor. She doesn't say anything. I don't say anything.
We both know that curious though I may be, I will never go through that door.