He has finished with University. He has returned home, to enter the working world. On one such night in this world, he tucks himself into bed, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.
He wakes. He is in a hallway. A hallway framed by arches, like the naves of the cathedrals of Old Europe. The arches are forty times his height, he estimates. The length of the hallway is at least a few hundred times as long as the arches are tall.
Yet there are discernable end-points to the hallway. Ahead, there is a glow. It is purest white, fierce and implacable, yet touched with gentle gold, warm and soothing. It radiates kindness, goodness, strength, patience, humility, protection, honour, courage, wisdom, righteousness. He feels compelled to move towards it. But it is so far away. Too far away.
Just behind him, darkness looms. It is frigid and yet furiously hot, inflicting both dead numbness and excruciating, burning agony in equal and co-existent measure. A name for this darkness forms unbidden in his mind: I--------. He dreads to turn to face it, fears even more to step back into it. And through this murk he can sense an even greater darkness lying behind. There is no feeling, no-thing, to this greater darkness. It is simply vacuum, nil-ism, oblivion.
He must move towards the light. It is imperative. But the first darkness clings to his feet, dragging him, slowing him, slowly eating into him. He gasps as the numbness bites him, then softly cries out as the searing fire begins to corrode him. He tears free from the first darkness, pushing himself forward in a stumbling gait towards the light. Yet the first darkness remains close behind.
Then he notices the doors.
The doors lie on each side of the hallway, in between the arches. Some are old and rotten-wooden, others are bright and freshly-painted. A few have numbers, several have knobs, handles, knockers. Most have welcome mats laid out in front of them. All have door bells.
The first darkness is gaining on him. He cannot reach the light in time. He must get out of the hallway, away from the darkness. He turns to the closest door, rings the bell, knocks.
Nothing.
He staggers to the next door. Again, nothing.
Door after door, and still nothing. The first darkness caresses his back, sending stabs of pain into him.
Then he comes to yet another door. It is wooden, painted a clean ivory white. The frame bespeaks patrician sternness and genteel strength. There is light seeping out from beneath. The smell of chicken roasting wafts from within. There is the sound of pleasant laughter, of the mirth shared between close friends.
He rings the bell. The first darkness halts and draws back. There is reprieve.
The door opens, and he stares at her face.
Sharp and angular, sculpted cheekbones bisected by an aquiline nose that is elegant in its prominence. And yet the face is soft. Eyes that gleam with razor-edged, yet benevolent, intelligence. Smooth alabaster skin without blemish or hardness. All framed by a mane of thick wavy hair. Beauty at once severe and gentle. He finds it almost painful to look at her.
Then she smiles. The smile is beautiful and beautifully sincere, it is graciousness and kindness, and it touches her eyes as well as her lips. She is painful to look at. But he cannot not look at her.
“How are you?” The voice is lilting and soft.
Despite himself, he grins sheepishly. “I’ve been better.”
She laughs. It is the melody of angels.
“It must be awful for you to be out there. Would you want to come in?” Concern now creases her graceful features, making her even more beautiful.
It takes a physical effort to tear his gaze from her, to look past her and into the room beyond.
The room is enveloped in the same glow as the distant one down the hallway, but without the radiation of stark whiteness. It is golden and soft and homely. There are white walls, lamps, a large sofa, and pictures. There is a television, although it is not switched on. There is a table, on which empty wine glasses sit. There is a fireplace with a fire going. There is some sort of kitchen, from which the smell of roast emanates.
He turns back to her. She is still looking at him. He notices a scent about her, a hint of apricots and almonds.
“You should come in. You look like you could use some dinner.” The urgency of her sympathy is unmistakeable.
His mouth opens to reply, but he cannot create the words. What is happening? he thinks.
“Come on in,” she insists, smiling again. The smile is genuine warmth and sweetness, like home-made cinnamon bakes or hot chocolate, without any trace of saccharine excess. “I know how terrible it must be out there.”
He nods, and smiles back. He can hardly believe this. From the desolate hallway to a – a home?
He moves forward. He raises his hand towards her, to introduce himself, to thank her for-
She scowls. She goes rigid. Her eyes narrow.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” she says. “Go away.”
He is dumbfounded. He tries to move in, thinking - hoping- that he has heard her wrongly.
Quick as lightning, she slams the door shut. He then notices that the door is not actually wooden. It is reinforced steel. He notices because the door slams shut onto his outstretched hand.
The hand keeps the door ajar, but at fearful cost. The edge of the door smashes into it. It breaks the skin, tears into the flesh. He can feel the bones crack. The agony has returned suddenly. He cries out.
She glares at him from the gap in the doorway. Only one eye stares out from the gap. It is flint and brims with frost. But there is no malice, only cold hostility.
He stares in shock at his crushed hand, caught in the door. He moans as the pain begins to build up again.
“Wh- why?”
She snarls.
“Piss off.”
He wrenches his ruined hand from the door, and it slams shut. Blood drips down along the frame. His blood. He stares at the hand - so much blood!- then at the door. He reaches to knock, to ring the doorbell again, but is reminded of his condition when agony shoots up his arm. He-
The first darkness is upon him again, enveloping him, tearing into him.
He spins in excruciation, screaming. He falls to the floor of the hallway and writhes. He calls out to the door, reaching to knock at it, crying out for her to let him in. But there is no reply.
He continues to thrash in overwhelming pain. Somehow he pulls himself away from the door, the bloodied door, away from the cursed darkness, towards the light. He tucks his mangled hand close to his body, grasping forward with his other hand. He crawls onward down the hallway.
He is weeping. He hates himself for his weakness in giving up trying to reach the light. He hates himself for the hurt. He also hates the light for being so far away, so that he is forced to knock on the doors, to stumble in the dark, to be jerked around like a puppet on strings.
He is not aware that the hallway's walls are mirrors, in which his reflection is that of a monster's.
