My arrival was
meant to be a surprise. I had wanted to see her one more time before
I left on a journey that might have kept me far for some time. The
departure weighed my arms down as I stood at the door.
The door was
constructed to keep unwelcomed guests out. As far as I could tell, it
consisted of solid unpainted steel. The dragon scale of a door had
never opened for me before. Its unmarked neutral body did little less
than intimidate potential visitors. I was brought to tears by the
dilemma created by the mighty threshold. With a dreadful vigour I
wished to leave it there forever. But to abandon her now was to leave
her forever.
A shaking overtook
my body as I struggled to raise a fist. The first knock was poorly
supported. The sound died before even I could hear it. My fist
clenched as the shaking intensified. The dragon scale was death
against my knuckles. It did not give anything away. Rather, it took
all it could. A chill gripped my body, seizing it suddenly and
violently. All of my dwindled strength and energy was placed into one
final knock. It regret that action.
The second struck
my ear drums with a passionate indifference. The echoing emptiness
was a wandering spirit, appearing when least wanted. It was a
sentence penned in my notebook by an unknown author. But, as horrible
as the hollow sound was, the following silence gave me the wish to
knock again. The obvious lack of any response was a knife to the
throat. There was no treatment. The end was near. But I did not
leave.
The handle was
slender, as if it was to break after a single use. My thumb carefully
pushed the doomsday button, and with a great heave, the door creaked
open.
The doorway seemed
ordinary, but shoes of all types covered the floor. I stepped in with
little thought as to what I might find. The small entry room was no
bigger than six feet wide and four feet long. A small brown doormat
was under my feet, and was placed as if to mark where the door would
open. I found no place to step, except for on the army of footwear
that filled the room. They were of every type, make, and color.
Strange foreign shoes were among them, alongside winter and summer
gear. I found an island among the unfamiliar sea of shoes. My own
sneakers stepped onto a pair of steel-toed workboots. I had stretched
across the sea so that I could shut the door. The crashing sound
bounded about the tiny room, striking me as it passed by. It was then
that I became aware of the parallel closets. They appeared to be no
less than moving mirrors. I saw myself in them, and I peered into
infinity. The mirrors were being pushed aside by their overwhelming
contents. Jackets and coats reached for freedom from the crammed
prison. I did not dare free them.
I stepped through
the arched doorway and entered what might have been a living room. It
was large in size and connected all of the other rooms of the house.
As central as it was, it felt out of place due to its decor. The
floor was visible in parts. It was a simplistic hardwood flooring,
but it was dirt being concealed by a lawn made up of discarded
articles of clothing. They were no different than the shoes in their
variety, but there was stranger in the room. It was lined with
identical cabinets of a very low quality. They were essentially
moveable closets, as they only had one compartment. They had no
design that could be identified as craftsmanship. I showed no care
for the littered clothes as I made my way to the closest cabinet. My
eyes noticed that each cabinet had a sheet of paper on it. They
appeared to be different in their messages. The assumption was that
this was how she found things.
But what was
written on the first cabinet was not a color, or anything of the
sort. The word was “Beauty”, an ideal I had strove to find
embodied in people. In fact, I thought that I had found it, but the
label made me question my achievement. I moved on, afraid as to what
I might have found within. “Truth” was the next ideal to be
listed. I continued, watching as I passed by “Justice” and then
“Courage”. Every label was an ideal, whether pursued by me or
not. But I could go no further when I read what I knew her as,
“Love”.
There was a deep
yearning to open the cabinet and find nothing but books on the
subject. I wanted to see row after row of romance novels, as well as
some more scientific works as to the mysteries of love. I hoped most
pathetically that all would go as I pleased. No facade lasts forever,
however. When my foolish mind decided to explore the unknown, it
found the answers it dreaded to see. The answers spawned more
questions, along with an overbearing sense of idiocy.
Everything had been
a simple masquerade, a game I unknowingly played. My fingers felt the
fake skin of Love's supposed face. My nerves could not distinguish it
from human skin, as always, but there was no denying that it was a
mask. I could find no way to doubt what I had found, except perhaps
for the presence of a psychopath who skinned his or her victims. I
was petrified and outraged. The frustration was an unexpected burden
on a fool's shoulders. All that I thought I had achieved was nothing
but a facade.
The steel door
creaked open. It had a purpose. People had to be kept away, or else
all would be revealed. I awaited discovery, as I knew she would
notice me immediately. The door crashed shut, but the sound was
insignificant. I took the mask with no hesitation. My movements were
quick and strong. I waited for her to find me standing out in the
open. Her footsteps were invisible to the ear's abilities, but her
voice was not.
“So now you
know.” The words were ice and the chemical composition possessed
not a trace of worry. I had drank the draught of rage. It intoxicated
me as I pivoted to face her. But it all faded away as I gazed upon
her unfamiliar face. It was indifferent to me in entirety. It felt
like I was facing a complete stranger.
“So what, or who,
are you? Do you just lend yourself to those who want you to play a
part?” I questioned with a tone full of sound and fury. I wanted to
hurt her for all that she had done to me. She let a smirk slip to
remind me of her indifference.
“I am whatever
you want me to be. After all, the time we've known each other has
been spent pretending you've achieved something worthwhile.” Her
mockery of me did not help my mental state. All it did was grind salt
into my wound. I was the worst kind of failure, one ignorant of the
truth.
“You're a
prostitute, then.” I attacked. She laughed.
“You sold
yourself to me, as the rest do. I put on my illusion, and you chased
it willingly. You gave me everything I wanted in order for me to
allow you to feel achievement. You see now? You are nothing but a
whore who is paid in false ideas.” Her words snickered at me at
every chance. It was amusing to her because it was true. I bit my
fist in frustration. The pain was relaxing, and the taste of blood
did not stop me. I continued, not knowing how to react to my
situation.
Sorrow waited its
turn to possess me, but it got its chance when I finally stopped
biting myself. My mouth was full of my own crimson liquid, and my
fist had become engulfed in the constant stream of blood. Drop after
drop fell onto the clothes below. She showed no care, and neither did
I. The taste in my mouth might have been nice, but it was warm and
horribly bitter. The corruption of my soul seemed to rest in it, and
I was experiencing it for the first time. It had been flowing through
my body for so long, and yet, I had no idea what was truly there. As
the sorrow took over, the blame went from her to me. It was an
unavoidable change of mind. I had chosen to degrade and deceive
myself. She was simply a meant to the idiotic end.
“Would you like
to see it?” Like the victor that she was, she wanted to flaunt all
that she had achieved. This much was apparent in her voice. Mine had
sounded the same before, thanks to her. I should have known to leave
her there, but my curiosity was leading me that day. As dark as the
tunnel was, I went rushing into it.
“See what?”
This was for clarification purposes.
“Your soul.
Follow me.” With silent footsteps she whispered her way across the
room. Her destination was a doorway placed between “Truth” and
“Beauty”. I had little impulse to do otherwise, so I tied my hand
to her shoulder and followed. What I imagined to find was my soul on
a pedestal. But I was wrong.
The room was of a
smaller sort, although it felt bigger than it was because it was
nearly completely barren. One strange piece of furniture occupied the
room. It hung on the wall like a life-sized portrait, but it was no
painting. It had a golden embroidered frame that made it seem even
stranger. The surface looked poorly reflective and was predominantly
black. I supposed that my soul was to appear in its image. It was a
device of magical horror.
I stepped before
it. The mirror's image swirled and spun its stormy tale. It laughed
cruelly as a form appeared in the darkness. I saw myself i all of my
strength, standing boldly against all evils. My pride swelled, only
to pop as my image was sapped of strength. My body was turning to
dust. Some skin died and peeled off, while the rest became a
strangled blue. The image, my distorted and dead image, was little
more than skin and bones. My soul was starved and suffocated my by
idiocy. Its eyes told of nothing less than a story of betrayal, of
self-afflicted homicide.
The image
overwhelmed me. It possessed my hurting mind and told me to do one
thing. The eyes shrivelled up and slipped from my soul's eye sockets.
I lunged to save them, only to meet with the mirror's cold face. It
was then that I obeyed.
My legs carried me
with an ungodly haste. My escape was to be made. It was time for a
catharsis. It was time for my departure. The steel door swung open to
my will. There was no hesitation in the way I left the trickster's
hollow home. I did not care for one final look, except in the theatre
of my mind. These events have been played out many times so that I
may never forget the dreadful image of my own soul.
I boarded the train
with a determined step. I would not let myself die so easily.
-Zero
