What could i write about?
I could write about a woman i really like
I could write about my iPhone
I could write about my job and how much i hate it
I could write about movies or TV shows
I could write a short story about a young girl dying of cancer
I could write a 120 page screenplay about trust
Or
I could write about what ever happens to escape from that room at the end of the corridor in the disturbed part of my subconscious
That happens to be a long dank corridor that looks like its been sitting at the bottom of a dirty lake for the past 30 years, with flickering lights and many doors running down both sides, the doors are all numbered in different materials the first, starting with 00 is a clean polished brass and at the end of the corridor, the one door that is facing me, with a number scared into the wooden surface, a deep crimson paint can still be seen where the door hasn't been charred by want ever foulness embodies that room, behind door 47, that part of my subconscious even the insects are to afraid to go near, oddly enough, the bottom of the door, which is the only place you can still see a good portion of the crimson paint work, and the 31 year old oak floor that is still is pristine, as if nobody has ever touched it, even the polish still shines in the dim flickering lights, the insects have defecated every other inch of the surrounding corridor, not a nook or cranky is untouched by the little creepy crawlies, a green slime which resembles pond scum, is sitting where the skirting board should be, reaching along the floor, up the walls in the corners and back across the ceiling like a coving, there is a damp musky smell, and an air of death,
This is not a place you'd like to visit
All the doors are held shut by a single lock which is represented by a door nob, again each a different material, but they match the numbers above them, you can not open these doors with a key, for there are on key holes, if you are meant to open a door, it well open for you, you simply turn the door nob and the lock will open, but beware, these doors do not open from the inside and they are not portals to a simple room beyond, carpeted with a small window in back, no these rooms are part of my subconscious, the dark side if you will, the place where anger, hate, malice, jealousy, wroth all the bad emotions dwell here, that voice, that paranoid voice in the back of your mind, the one that makes you second guess people you trust, its an illogical and irrational place, that cartoon devil that sits on your shoulder whispering into your ear,
The old oak floor has because so damp that it feels soft to walk on, door 00, the polished brass reflecting your visage, its dark blue in colour, you reach for the brass door nob, your hand gravitates to it, like two magnets, it feels weird at first, like a mild electrical currant running into your hand, it doesn't hurt, on the contrary it feels almost soothing, you turn the door nob slowly anti-clockwise, you hear the lock click back, it doesn't sound very strong, and like a magnet flipping its polarity your hand is pushed away from the door nob and at the same time the door opens a few inches,
Darkness, you reach forward and slowly push open the door, careful not to step into the unknown, as the door reveals more of the room, you notice that there is nothing in there, its a dark space, almost like a black hole ate the room, nothing tangible, you stand in the open door way, do you step in or do you close this door and try another one, the old oak floor beneath your feet swells moisture like a damp carpet, you lift you left foot and hold onto the door frame to support yourself, you lower your left foot to where the floor of the room should be, touchdown, a tangible hard surface, as your foot makes contact with the floor of the room, light that doesn't seem to have a source but grows from where your foot touches the floor, slowly revealing the room in its concentric circles like you stepped into a puddle, the room has a carpet, a rug, furniture like in some old victorian costume drama, big heavy curtains hang flacking the huge bay windows, and the ceiling capped with a chandelier, it looks nice, it looks inviting, a china set sits at the back of the room on a small table by the only wingback chair, again the room seems to be inviting you in,
The dampness from the old oak floor still adhered to your shoe, you move forward, shifting your weight on to your left foot, the right starts to lift, the damp that is on your left shoe starts to slowly infect the room, the once flawless carpet now has a tar black stain, you haven't noticed, you step again, and another tar like foot print is left by your right shoe, the tar starts to crawl slowly, reaching out across the carpet as if alive growing as it moves, the two spots join together and slowly, behind you they start to grow, faster and faster, encompassing the room out of sight, as if the room was flesh being torn away, your looking at the china set, the hot pot of tea and the delicious cakes beside it, the light over head starts to fade, not enough to get your attention, you reach for the china when, the chandelier over head blows as the tar infects it, a shower of bulb glass falls behind you, you snap to, shack your head, wondering what you are doing, you look at the china set again, now you notice that the light has dropped, but a flickering shaft of light casts a soft shadow on the wall in front of you, you look back to the door, again you wonder what has just happened, how did you get into the room, one minute your standing in the corridor looking onto a void and the next minute your standing in Jane Austin's tea room, the door starts to close, slowly to prolong the terror, your feet are stuck to the floor by the tar which is slowly crawling up your legs tiring into your flesh, the decor starts to fade away faster then it appeared, you can't help but keep your eyes on the door as it closes, its hard to breath, there doesn't seem to be any air in this room but a last desperate effort to suck in enough air to let out a scream just as the door closes, you reach out with the one arm not trapped in bondage by the tar, a stifled scream emits from your lips,
Darkness,
The dark blue colour barely visible in the flicking light of the corridor, the brass number 00 glistens with every flicker, you take your hands away from your face and open your eyes, your looking at the brass 00, your outside the room again, standing in front of the door in the same place you stood when you opened it, confusion fills your mind, you back away you can't take your eyes off the door, then with haste you leave the corridor behind you, leaving my subconscious mind.
This is why i don't like that corridor, i try to avoid it as much as i can, but sometimes I'm drawn to it, and i open one of those doors, at which something escapes never to be replaced or trapped back behind the door it came from, and when something escapes, a part of you remains, trapped forever in purgatory,
48 doors, all are different, all hold some form of my disturbed subconscious.
Regards
The man behind door 47...
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