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Through the door . . . and everything changes, forever. Browse this Category | Browse this Author | Return Home Rating: N/A |
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Inside, Where Night Is Falling
The door. He could still see it from the corner of his eye. He began to chew on the inside of his mouth. He lowered his head and stared at the tops of his scuffed shoes. And still his eye managed to find that corner. And that door. He closed his eyes, but that was a mistake--took away any distractions and forced him into being alone with his thoughts.
"Don't want that," he whispered. And then he stopped, brow furrowed. Did I say that out-loud or . . . . He opened his eyes. Guess no one heard. Of course, now he could feel that strange magnetic force tugging at his eyes. He could feel them being pulled towards that door.
"Oh dammit!" That was out-loud, but he didn't care. He took a quick look. Yes sir, still there. A door. Just a damn ordinary door. He screwed his eyes closed. Tight as tight. Tight as a drum. Tight as the center of a black hole. Tighter than . . .
You're scared--came the thought.
"Of course," he muttered. Then his shoulders jerked in a futile gesture; could have been a laugh; could have been a sob. Or somewhere in-between.
You go through that door and everything changes--another thought.
"Wisdom was never clearer," he whispered. He opened his eyes again and found them focused on his hands. Small hands. An artist's hands. Too delicate for a man, he'd always thought. Never liked to shake hands--not with men anyway. Women liked them. He smiled at that. Sensitive hands. Lover's hands. He grimaced and shoved his hands down between his thighs.
It's time to decide--an intrusive thought. Or rather a thought to put the train back on track.
He took a deep breath and leaned back until the crown of his head touched the wall. The ceiling had that rough unfinished plaster-work look--the kind he remembered from his childhood bedroom. Back then it had been the surface of some distant, alien planet. Now it was just a ceiling that offered no escape.
He heard footsteps to his right. He leaned forward and craned his head around. The footsteps faded. And there it was, that force, tugging now at the back of his head, demanding he turn and look. Look at the door.
He brought up his hands and snaked his long, delicate fingers through his hair; gripping and tugging brought on fresh pain and a momentary respite.
"Oh God."
Get up and walk out of here. The thought came through with such clarity. An imperious command. A last moment of free, selfish and utterly truthful insight.
Or at least he hoped it was.
He felt his body tense--rising almost imperceptibly to the edge of the chair. He felt two forces at work on him now: that magnetic pull toward the door and a visceral push to flee down the hall. Train's boarding. Time to get up or--
More footsteps and the sound of jingling keys. This time he saw the guard coming toward him. Big guy in a uniform that was nearly bursting at the seams. The guard stood there, thumbs hooked through his holster belt, and nodded. He gave the guard a small smile--just the corners of his mouth lifting and nothing in the eyes. The guard nodded again and moved away; crisp footsteps and the oddly musical cacophony of keys following.
He felt like crying. He felt like laughing. He felt numb. The world is drawing to a close. Night is falling. The heart is a wind up clock that hasn't been wound in years.
It will be night forever.
I'm twenty-one and I'm never going to be okay for the rest of my life . . .
He rose up from the chair on trembling legs. He turned slowly toward the door. The power emanating from that simple, ordinary, made of wood, door was extraordinary.
How can you resist this?--the thought seemed apologetic now. As if the earlier gambit of reason had been but a momentary flash of weakness.
He approached the door as one in a fever--impelled and delirious and not giving a damn either way.
The door knob was ice cold as he turned and pushed--but slowly with the timidity of a twice-caught thief.
He entered the room and she smiled up at him from the bed--radiant and full of promise. He tried to smile. Perhaps he got it right this time.
Perhaps the sun will rise in the morning, he told himself. I hope.
His smile widened.
And he went to his wife and newborn daughter.
Copyright © 1998 by William Hiles
--William Hiles
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