The Door
If you have half a brain cell in your skull, you should wonder why you're here. We all do. It's one of life's great mysteries. What are we doing on this vast planet, filled with six billion people who are exactly like us and different in every way. I can't answer that question. I don't think anyone can. What I can answer, however, is why you're here. Right here, right now, reading my story. It's because I'm a writer. I create stories, I write them, and you, well you're a reader, so you read. It's the way this connection we share works, I write the words, you read them, and we both come off a little bit wiser from the experience. This is why you read and I write, because you want to be entertained and taught, and I can weave one bloody good yarn. But enough about you and me, about us, and let's get to the story. It's why you came here after all.
It all started some time ago, while having a conversation with a close friend of mine. We were talking about our typical fare; psychology, philosophy, politics, art, life. He tells me he's come up with one of those visualization tricks to get a feel for your own subconscious. Now, I'm an open-minded man, and I even believe in the merit of some of those types of things, but to be honest I've always considered my friend, let's call him John, to be more of an object to bounce my own ideas off of. Not that John isn't smart, he seems to be a... mildly capable person, but he has this nasty habit of getting carried away on things that make absolutely no sense. I figured there'd be no harm in hearing him out, so I give him his chance. It starts out being the typical "close your eyes, clear your mind" bit, which is just cliché enough to be expected. To his credit, he changed it up a tad when he asked me to imagine a door, of all things. I humored him, and imagined up a door. Not a hard thing to do. So there we were, sitting at a table in a coffee shop, him waiting expectantly, me, eyes closed, with nothing but an aged red door in my head. His next instructions, logically, were telling me to open the door. I approached this door, went to turn the handle and... nothing. The door was locked, the handle barely budged. I wondered if this were a part of the test until he asked "so what did you see behind the door?" I didn't see anything, I couldn't. My door was locked, and judging from his reaction this was the first time it'd happened. Regardless, we shrugged it off and continued on with our little chat.
Or I had assumed we'd shrugged it off. John most likely had, but I found that on my return drive home, only one though occupied my mind. Why couldn't I open the door? I was baffled, and I like to think myself a man not easily baffled. Some kind of personal disconnect with myself? Some psychological block yet to be worked through? I mean, I have my share of fucked up things in my past, but so does everyone, and everyone else can open the door. It was at this point I noticed I was starting to drift into the middle of the road a bit, so I quickly went back to focusing on driving. The roads were wet and it was around one in the morning, so I didn't feel like taking any unnecessary risks. It was a nice quiet night, roads empty, nature quiet, everything tranquil. It would have been a shame to ruin it by crashing my car and dying.
After the conclusion of the half hour or so drive home, and as I stepped into my house a sudden wave of exhaustion struck me. I decided it was time to pack it in and call it a night, so I headed up to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. I laid there for a few minutes, taking in the room around me. It was dark, for the most part, other than my desk which stood across the room beneath my window, lit by some unseen moon. The desk's centerpiece was a good old fashioned electric typewriter. I own it mostly for the novelty, I'd never actually written anything extensive on it, mostly just a few short bits and bobs. It feels like the kind of thing every writer should have, and I love the sound it makes when it's typing. That clack clack makes me feel one with history's greatest writers, and that's a good feeling to have when your muse gives you the cold shoulder. Just looking at the typewriter always helped my thoughts to congeal, and tonight was no exception. Looking at the typewriter, I figured out how to solve my door dilemma, which was still festering in the back of my mind. I'd just do what I always did when I had a problem, I'd write about it. Putting words to paper always helped me to figure things out. Maybe it was because, as an author, I'd be seeing the problem from an outside perspective and I can see things I'd normally be blind to. Honestly, I didn't feel the need to concern myself with the nitty gritty details of how that worked, only that it did. I crawled out of bed, turned on the typewriter, and put in a piece of paper. I looked down at it, and the white of the paper slowly blurred with the greys of the typewriter and the desk until they were one foggy mass, and I realized I was far too tired to write anything of significance now. I started for a few seconds, what felt like an hour, or perhaps all night, simply trying to fight my way through the fog to the keys of the typewriter. Once I made it back, I managed to type out eight characters onto the paper. That made it official. As soon as I was rested, I would go to my computer and start writing "The Door"
===================================== End of Section One ===============================
I opened my eyes at the sound of a sharp beep. I must have fallen asleep. I gave my eyes a moment to focus, then found my bearings. I was in my bed, and it was comfortable. Why did I set my alarm? A second beep rang out, and I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered toward the alarm clock. Sometimes I hated that thing. I finally got to the clock and it managed to give off one last beep before I shut it off. I stood in a daze, trying to collect my thoughts. The clock said it was eleven in the morning, and all I could do was wonder what ungodly reason I could have for setting my alarm for eleven. I fell backwards, barely catching myself with my desk chair. I sat there in a daze, exchanging longing looks with my bed. I knew there had to be some reason I set my alarm, and sleeping in late wouldn't do my any good. I stretched out and yawned, knocking my arm against the typewriter. It was only then I remembered the story concept I had come up with the previous evening. Still tired, but no longer purposeless, I took the idea sheet down to my office and started up my computer. The machine is always slow to start, so I took the time to lay back and plot the beginning.
It all started some time ago, while having a conversation with a close friend of mine. We were talking about our typical fare; psychology, philosophy, politics, art, life. He tells me he's come up with one of those visualization tricks to get a feel for your own subconscious. Now, I'm an open-minded man, and I even believe in the merit of some of those types of things, but to be honest I've always considered my friend, let's call him John, to be more of an object to bounce my own ideas off of. Not that John isn't smart, he seems to be a... mildly capable person, but he has this nasty habit of getting carried away on things that make absolutely no sense. I figured there'd be no harm in hearing him out, so I give him his chance. It starts out being the typical "close your eyes, clear your mind" bit, which is just cliché enough to be expected. To his credit, he changed it up a tad when he asked me to imagine a door, of all things. I humored him, and imagined up a door. Not a hard thing to do. So there we were, sitting at a table in a coffee shop, him waiting expectantly, me, eyes closed, with nothing but an aged red door in my head. His next instructions, logically, were telling me to open the door. I approached this door, went to turn the handle and... nothing. The door was locked, the handle barely budged. I wondered if this were a part of the test until he asked "so what did you see behind the door?" I didn't see anything, I couldn't. My door was locked, and judging from his reaction this was the first time it'd happened. Regardless, we shrugged it off and continued on with our little chat.
Or I had assumed we'd shrugged it off. John most likely had, but I found that on my return drive home, only one though occupied my mind. Why couldn't I open the door? I was baffled, and I like to think myself a man not easily baffled. Some kind of personal disconnect with myself? Some psychological block yet to be worked through? I mean, I have my share of fucked up things in my past, but so does everyone, and everyone else can open the door. It was at this point I noticed I was starting to drift into the middle of the road a bit, so I quickly went back to focusing on driving. The roads were wet and it was around one in the morning, so I didn't feel like taking any unnecessary risks. It was a nice quiet night, roads empty, nature quiet, everything tranquil. It would have been a shame to ruin it by crashing my car and dying.
After the conclusion of the half hour or so drive home, and as I stepped into my house a sudden wave of exhaustion struck me. I decided it was time to pack it in and call it a night, so I headed up to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. I laid there for a few minutes, taking in the room around me. It was dark, for the most part, other than my desk which stood across the room beneath my window, lit by some unseen moon. The desk's centerpiece was a good old fashioned electric typewriter. I own it mostly for the novelty, I'd never actually written anything extensive on it, mostly just a few short bits and bobs. It feels like the kind of thing every writer should have, and I love the sound it makes when it's typing. That clack clack makes me feel one with history's greatest writers, and that's a good feeling to have when your muse gives you the cold shoulder. Just looking at the typewriter always helped my thoughts to congeal, and tonight was no exception. Looking at the typewriter, I figured out how to solve my door dilemma, which was still festering in the back of my mind. I'd just do what I always did when I had a problem, I'd write about it. Putting words to paper always helped me to figure things out. Maybe it was because, as an author, I'd be seeing the problem from an outside perspective and I can see things I'd normally be blind to. Honestly, I didn't feel the need to concern myself with the nitty gritty details of how that worked, only that it did. I crawled out of bed, turned on the typewriter, and put in a piece of paper. I looked down at it, and the white of the paper slowly blurred with the greys of the typewriter and the desk until they were one foggy mass, and I realized I was far too tired to write anything of significance now. I started for a few seconds, what felt like an hour, or perhaps all night, simply trying to fight my way through the fog to the keys of the typewriter. Once I made it back, I managed to type out eight characters onto the paper. That made it official. As soon as I was rested, I would go to my computer and start writing "The Door"
===================================== End of Section One ===============================
I opened my eyes at the sound of a sharp beep. I must have fallen asleep. I gave my eyes a moment to focus, then found my bearings. I was in my bed, and it was comfortable. Why did I set my alarm? A second beep rang out, and I dragged myself out of bed and lumbered toward the alarm clock. Sometimes I hated that thing. I finally got to the clock and it managed to give off one last beep before I shut it off. I stood in a daze, trying to collect my thoughts. The clock said it was eleven in the morning, and all I could do was wonder what ungodly reason I could have for setting my alarm for eleven. I fell backwards, barely catching myself with my desk chair. I sat there in a daze, exchanging longing looks with my bed. I knew there had to be some reason I set my alarm, and sleeping in late wouldn't do my any good. I stretched out and yawned, knocking my arm against the typewriter. It was only then I remembered the story concept I had come up with the previous evening. Still tired, but no longer purposeless, I took the idea sheet down to my office and started up my computer. The machine is always slow to start, so I took the time to lay back and plot the beginning.