Dark Corridors
Author: Jillybean
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If you close your eyes and picture a room, what colour is it? Are there shadows playing on the walls? Half lights cast by the glow from a yellowed window, needing cleaned of the day to day dust? Or is it sharp, windowless, devoid of pattern and interest - the only thing in the room is you. You are the only thing worth noticing. Is there a door? Is there one door or many? How many doors are too many, in your opinion? Perhaps even one is too many. After all, you must choose whether or not to walk through the door.
And if you should choose to stay in your room, in the box that defines you, what should you do? Walk circles in a square room, sometimes looking to the cieling as a fish looks to the bubble of air at the top of it's bowl? Should you sit, or play, or sing, or scream? In the end will you bore of this room and decide that one door is not enough. You want another door, you want to choose between doors and choose what one you shall walk through.
Crossing the threshold is the easy part, it's the steps afterwards that must be placed with care. Are these corridors lit? Can you see clearly? Maybe you're in another room entirely or maybe you've found youself in the same room. Are the corridors long? Are they short? Is there someone to guide you, or are you alone?
The girl's corridors were dark.
As a child she was confined to a room, as was everyone else. But she had doors that opened - doors that happened earlier than most. The room she was in was warm and sunny, with enough to look at to avoid boredom. She could have stayed in that room.
Needless to say, she did not stay in that room. She walked through corridors and found more rooms, sometimes she would stay and explore for a while, but never for long. The corridors would grow longer and murkier. The rooms would be smaller and each time she reached one there would be nothing there but another door. Eventually these corridors grew pitch black, eventually she learned to feel safer in the anonymity than in the clean cut folds of another room.
The room she stumbled upon, was like any other. It was cold and angry, it didn't want her and she didn't want it. She could have moved on, through the corridors and their increasing darkness, their increasing welcome. She wanted to abandon herself in the shadows. Partly.
But something clamoured for attention, to stop endlessly moving from corridor to corridor and find a room where she could sit and think and be at peace. Maybe she wanted to see her face in the reflection of a window pane.
Maybe she wanted to see what the night had made her.
She resolved to stay in the room and she walked her circles in it's box. She did not know, though she could have guessed, that this room was not meant for staying in. One was meant to move on from it, to leave it behind. It frustrated her that she could not settle, she knew goddamnitt she knew! She knew she needed to stay in that room, to do what was right and stay there.
Slowly the number of doors leading out of that room receeded. Only one remained, the handle cold to the touch. She eased it open, thinking - I'll just check - and she was irrevocably drawn to the blackness inside.
For a long time she walked, in a straight line as she had done before. She could not see, could not feel, could not touch and that was all as she had done before. But for as long as she walked she could not find another room. The corridor wound on forever and she had her epiphany. She was not going to find another room.
This dead certainty brought tears to her eyes, she had missed her last chance for a room, for sight, for the barest chance of love that the room could offer. She would rather cease to exist than stay in this corridor any longer.
She would rather end. Than be a moment more in the dark.
In front of her there was a fork, one path ended. Simply ended, she need only take that path. The other path was a steep uphill slope, it's ground was painfully rough and there was no promise that it could not end as well.
It was a choice she had to make.
She would rather end. Than be a moment more in the dark.
So she climbed, she climbed the darkness and finally found a tiny room. It was light enough to see a hand held in front of her face, but too dark to see much else. It allowed her to breathe, to feel level ground again.
And there she remembered the absolute pitch of before and knew she could not rest for long, unless it caught up with her.
So she climbed. She climbed and climbed. Sometimes the path would dip and she would tumble, lying on the rough ground, pained and exhausted and wondering if maybe she should just end. It would be preferable to the dark.
She did not think that she could do that so she climbed again.
She finally found a room, small but lighter than before. The light streamed in from a high windowpane, it's four segments were all dusty and tarnished. She stood on her tip toes to look into the window, to see her reflection back.
It was enough to send her to the dark corridors again. Pale and nasty - it was as black and wretched as her heart. She could not be like that! She was not that hideous!
But she was. She could see it for herself now.
Black though my heart may be, I shall not return to darkness. Was her thought as she left that room. The path before her was still treachorous, but now she could sometimes see the pitfalls coming, and one day there was someone there beside her.
She longed to ask this person who they were, longed to ask why they walked beside her. But they talked of menial things and they parted ways before the next room. Standing in a bright and airy room she wondered if the person had had to climb as she had. She wondered why.
She stays in this room for some time, loving it and being loved in return. Sometimes she is angry and wants to leave it all behind, but for the most part she can survive here. It is only one day that she opens her eyes and hears someone say to her.
You must move on. The voice is gentle and laughing. There are other voices too. Together, as a cacophony they move through more well-used corridors, filling them with light and song.
They lead her to another room - where she finds a mirror. She refuses to look in that mirror - for then they too will see her black, cold, twisted heart. She can't afford to lose them and their love. They will not see what she hides.
The effort, the constant fear of the mirror takes it's toll and she slides towards another door, drawn to it. She hovers on the threshold, seeing it's darkness. But they take her away, before she can stop them, they take her on another path, saying it is what must be done.
They do not understand why the path before them is growing dark. But she does. She knows it is her ugliness that is taking the life from them. She vows to leave them, to stop hurting them with her shadows.
And they come to a room. The last room they will come to together, she is sure of it. This time when they leave she remains. She circles one way, then circles the other and lives wishing she had gone with them. But knowing it would only have brought them to the dark corridors, the place where she dares not go.
She knows all the remaining corridors are dark and cold. She knows it in her bones. She must stay in this ever darkening room, even though she is meant to wander corridors - the room is her safety.
It is in one huge act of anger, as she pummels the walls, screaming about the unfairness of it all, that she notices a mirror. Angry, resentful, she looks into the glass.
It is not the black figure she expected. Unattractive? Yes. But twisted and dark? No. She is cold only because she is bereft. In a daring moment of hope she dashes along a thing corridor, finding another room. The others smile at her.
We've been waiting for ages. They say.
She wants to sing, to scream in exuberance and tell them that she isn't what she thought she was. She is no black ogre to kill in the night. Content like this, she wanders with them for many years. Sometimes they stop in corridors sometimes in rooms. Sometimes it grows darker, but they survive.
One room they come to has a mirror, she dares to look in it, revelling in the healing wound she sees.
But the corridors they walk now are darkening again. She can't understand why and she doesn't want to know. She knows it's not her this time, not wholly. She wants to tell them about the bad place, about knowing that there is an absolute low. She doesn't know how to tell them.
In the end she walks with them, hoping, praying that the corridors will grow lighter again.
She does not have long to go until the darkness swallows her once more. She feels it growing, preying on her chest. It is following her, but if she turns to confront it - it dissipates.
The others ask her why she is facing backwards? Was there something there she thought she saw?
Now is the time to say. But she cannot tell them how dark it is. Fearing she has doomed them all - she follows on.
Author: Jillybean
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you close your eyes and picture a room, what colour is it? Are there shadows playing on the walls? Half lights cast by the glow from a yellowed window, needing cleaned of the day to day dust? Or is it sharp, windowless, devoid of pattern and interest - the only thing in the room is you. You are the only thing worth noticing. Is there a door? Is there one door or many? How many doors are too many, in your opinion? Perhaps even one is too many. After all, you must choose whether or not to walk through the door.
And if you should choose to stay in your room, in the box that defines you, what should you do? Walk circles in a square room, sometimes looking to the cieling as a fish looks to the bubble of air at the top of it's bowl? Should you sit, or play, or sing, or scream? In the end will you bore of this room and decide that one door is not enough. You want another door, you want to choose between doors and choose what one you shall walk through.
Crossing the threshold is the easy part, it's the steps afterwards that must be placed with care. Are these corridors lit? Can you see clearly? Maybe you're in another room entirely or maybe you've found youself in the same room. Are the corridors long? Are they short? Is there someone to guide you, or are you alone?
The girl's corridors were dark.
As a child she was confined to a room, as was everyone else. But she had doors that opened - doors that happened earlier than most. The room she was in was warm and sunny, with enough to look at to avoid boredom. She could have stayed in that room.
Needless to say, she did not stay in that room. She walked through corridors and found more rooms, sometimes she would stay and explore for a while, but never for long. The corridors would grow longer and murkier. The rooms would be smaller and each time she reached one there would be nothing there but another door. Eventually these corridors grew pitch black, eventually she learned to feel safer in the anonymity than in the clean cut folds of another room.
The room she stumbled upon, was like any other. It was cold and angry, it didn't want her and she didn't want it. She could have moved on, through the corridors and their increasing darkness, their increasing welcome. She wanted to abandon herself in the shadows. Partly.
But something clamoured for attention, to stop endlessly moving from corridor to corridor and find a room where she could sit and think and be at peace. Maybe she wanted to see her face in the reflection of a window pane.
Maybe she wanted to see what the night had made her.
She resolved to stay in the room and she walked her circles in it's box. She did not know, though she could have guessed, that this room was not meant for staying in. One was meant to move on from it, to leave it behind. It frustrated her that she could not settle, she knew goddamnitt she knew! She knew she needed to stay in that room, to do what was right and stay there.
Slowly the number of doors leading out of that room receeded. Only one remained, the handle cold to the touch. She eased it open, thinking - I'll just check - and she was irrevocably drawn to the blackness inside.
For a long time she walked, in a straight line as she had done before. She could not see, could not feel, could not touch and that was all as she had done before. But for as long as she walked she could not find another room. The corridor wound on forever and she had her epiphany. She was not going to find another room.
This dead certainty brought tears to her eyes, she had missed her last chance for a room, for sight, for the barest chance of love that the room could offer. She would rather cease to exist than stay in this corridor any longer.
She would rather end. Than be a moment more in the dark.
In front of her there was a fork, one path ended. Simply ended, she need only take that path. The other path was a steep uphill slope, it's ground was painfully rough and there was no promise that it could not end as well.
It was a choice she had to make.
She would rather end. Than be a moment more in the dark.
So she climbed, she climbed the darkness and finally found a tiny room. It was light enough to see a hand held in front of her face, but too dark to see much else. It allowed her to breathe, to feel level ground again.
And there she remembered the absolute pitch of before and knew she could not rest for long, unless it caught up with her.
So she climbed. She climbed and climbed. Sometimes the path would dip and she would tumble, lying on the rough ground, pained and exhausted and wondering if maybe she should just end. It would be preferable to the dark.
She did not think that she could do that so she climbed again.
She finally found a room, small but lighter than before. The light streamed in from a high windowpane, it's four segments were all dusty and tarnished. She stood on her tip toes to look into the window, to see her reflection back.
It was enough to send her to the dark corridors again. Pale and nasty - it was as black and wretched as her heart. She could not be like that! She was not that hideous!
But she was. She could see it for herself now.
Black though my heart may be, I shall not return to darkness. Was her thought as she left that room. The path before her was still treachorous, but now she could sometimes see the pitfalls coming, and one day there was someone there beside her.
She longed to ask this person who they were, longed to ask why they walked beside her. But they talked of menial things and they parted ways before the next room. Standing in a bright and airy room she wondered if the person had had to climb as she had. She wondered why.
She stays in this room for some time, loving it and being loved in return. Sometimes she is angry and wants to leave it all behind, but for the most part she can survive here. It is only one day that she opens her eyes and hears someone say to her.
You must move on. The voice is gentle and laughing. There are other voices too. Together, as a cacophony they move through more well-used corridors, filling them with light and song.
They lead her to another room - where she finds a mirror. She refuses to look in that mirror - for then they too will see her black, cold, twisted heart. She can't afford to lose them and their love. They will not see what she hides.
The effort, the constant fear of the mirror takes it's toll and she slides towards another door, drawn to it. She hovers on the threshold, seeing it's darkness. But they take her away, before she can stop them, they take her on another path, saying it is what must be done.
They do not understand why the path before them is growing dark. But she does. She knows it is her ugliness that is taking the life from them. She vows to leave them, to stop hurting them with her shadows.
And they come to a room. The last room they will come to together, she is sure of it. This time when they leave she remains. She circles one way, then circles the other and lives wishing she had gone with them. But knowing it would only have brought them to the dark corridors, the place where she dares not go.
She knows all the remaining corridors are dark and cold. She knows it in her bones. She must stay in this ever darkening room, even though she is meant to wander corridors - the room is her safety.
It is in one huge act of anger, as she pummels the walls, screaming about the unfairness of it all, that she notices a mirror. Angry, resentful, she looks into the glass.
It is not the black figure she expected. Unattractive? Yes. But twisted and dark? No. She is cold only because she is bereft. In a daring moment of hope she dashes along a thing corridor, finding another room. The others smile at her.
We've been waiting for ages. They say.
She wants to sing, to scream in exuberance and tell them that she isn't what she thought she was. She is no black ogre to kill in the night. Content like this, she wanders with them for many years. Sometimes they stop in corridors sometimes in rooms. Sometimes it grows darker, but they survive.
One room they come to has a mirror, she dares to look in it, revelling in the healing wound she sees.
But the corridors they walk now are darkening again. She can't understand why and she doesn't want to know. She knows it's not her this time, not wholly. She wants to tell them about the bad place, about knowing that there is an absolute low. She doesn't know how to tell them.
In the end she walks with them, hoping, praying that the corridors will grow lighter again.
She does not have long to go until the darkness swallows her once more. She feels it growing, preying on her chest. It is following her, but if she turns to confront it - it dissipates.
The others ask her why she is facing backwards? Was there something there she thought she saw?
Now is the time to say. But she cannot tell them how dark it is. Fearing she has doomed them all - she follows on.