The Door

She stared at the door as if to expect anything horrible to burst through any minute. Well, from what she knew, there might.

Tiny beads of perspiration had begun to gather on her forehead, and already the first salty drop trickled down. It made a beeline for her right eye, causing her to squint and blink upon its unbidden arrival. Still, she dared not move either of her hands, which were clasped around the wooden log in a death grip. Admittedly, the log wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing. If anyone, anything came through that door, she wouldn’t hesitate to put this piece of wood to use as well as she could.

Considering how fiercely her arms were meanwhile trembling with the sheer effort of keeping the log lifted, there wasn’t much strength left that she might put behind any blow. But what did they say? Fear will bring out strength unknown in a person. On that unknown strength, she was counting. Not out of conviction or prior experience, but because there was not much more left to count on. The door was the only way out of this room, so she had to get past the evil forces lurking out there somehow, or die trying. Strangely enough, she couldn’t even recount where she’d obtained her makeshift weapon, for the room was devoid of any furniture. It was devoid of colour even.

Another bead of sweat trickled down, this one making its way down the bridge of her nose. It came to cling to the tip of her nose, and it took her a great deal of willpower not to reach up and brush it away. It tickled. The feeling was just this side of tolerable. When she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, she finally shook her head, which made the bead fly off the tip of her nose in a wide arch. The forceful motion cost her a moment of concentration on what lay before her, but that was still better than letting go of the log.

Then a muffled, clanking sound, off to her left. Reflexively, she turned her head to stare right into the mirror which covered most of the wall. An impenetrable mirror it was, as earlier attempts at smashing it in order to provide herself with a better weapon had proved. Her knuckles still hurt from the row of blows she’d inflicted upon the shining surface in a desperate rage; her reflection still carried the angry, red marks to go with the pain. What her reflection did not carry, however, was her version of the wooden log. So she realised with an angry scowl.

Just one weapon for the two of them. And was that the sound of a key turning in a lock? Renewing her fighting stance, she turned her attention back to the door.

It’s now or never, she though, and as soon as the door slid open, she pounced.

(28.02.2005)