On Remembering to Leave

Inside the barn, there are doors upon doors upon doors. They’re white but the paint is chipping. If I were to touch one, splinters would bore into my skin. All of the doors are identical.

The walls of the barn might look like they’re disintegrating but I can’t break through them. There is no way out apart from the doors.

I don’t remember how I got here, I don’t remember where I’m trying to go. Yet I know I must choose a door. My choice could be fatal. This much is true.

It smells of cow shit and captivity. Animals could have lived here. Perhaps I am one. If I look down and look up again, I forget what it is that I saw.

I don’t know what time it is or how long I’ve been here. Maybe five minutes, maybe days. There must be a life beyond doors. Perhaps I’ll remember who I was if I choose the right one. I don’t know if I want to remember. For now, my mind is blank.

Every time I reach out to one of the doors, I recoil and step back, press my body into the wooden walls as if trying to push them away from me. Something tells me I’m not ready yet. Something tells me I’ll never be ready.

I could stay here, in front of these doors. I’m not growing hungry or tired or cold. I could claim the non-space, make it mine, accept it, move on with my existence. There is certainty in emptiness. This, I know, is the wrong choice.

Sometimes I imagine the sound of a fly buzzing close to me. It reminds me of the absence of life. The sound stirs a memory of a time before I was looking at doors, but it scurries away before I can access it. All time I know has been spent in this barn, in front of doors.

The floor, piss-stained, gray, reeks of the promise of death, yet I know I cannot die here.

It appears I am dreaming but I know I’m stuck here until I make a choice. In reality, it is not a choice at all, only posing as such.

I imagine the doors have meaning: Waking up is a door. Never waking up is a door. Waking up but wishing I hadn’t is a door. Falling from dream to dream is a door.

I know whichever one I touch, I’ll have to open. It’s a game of chess but I don’t know who I’m playing against, or if I am a player myself. I could be nothing but a pawn, plopped down on a board, waiting for a higher power to move me in this direction or that, and the thought could feel like my own, the impulse could feel like an epiphany, but be nothing but a move in a game in which I, for all I know, am expendable. I feel watched, yet completely alone. I breathe in and smell the faint bite of ammonia.

If I close my eyes, I sense the creeping dread of cattle being loaded unto a semi-truck. Like them, I need to escape but I wont move. One of these doors could be freedom yet I remain inside, won’t even allow myself to think about what life outside the barn could look like for fear of disappointment. The barn cannot disappoint me.

Every thought claws its way forward as if stuck in syrup, spiraling in excruciatingly slow circles. Air thick as honey fills my lungs and clings to my insides. I now live in front of doors and every movement is pointless. I could strain my eyes to stare at them or I could close them and drift in and out of consciousness.

There is no information to be had, no voice explaining the rules of the game, no hint what the solution might be. No matter how many times I weigh my options, they all end up weighing the same.

I could have been tricked and all the doors lead to the same destination. Or they could lead to another room such as this, with even more impossible choices to be made. There is no promise any of them even leads away from the barn. They could all reveal nothing but wooden walls when opened.

At some point I must have sat down because the doors are looming larger and larger before me, now towering over me, three, four times the size of me, or perhaps it is me who is shrinking. I blink and they are larger still, now warping into the ceiling until they surround me, are in front of and behind me, somehow above and below me. They’re coming closer. Every thought I have revolves around doors. Everywhere I look, there are doors.

They will crush me if I don’t make a choice. I try to remember what it is I have to lose.

Tentatively, I reach out.

The paint feels rough under my skin and I begin to bleed, red on white paint, then brown. I understand I lost whatever game it is I was playing. Somehow, I don’t care any more.

I thrust myself into the door. It swings open with a deafening screech, metal on rusted metal. Behind it, I see nothing but darkness. It pulls me closer. I don’t resist.

I tumble forward and start falling. Air bites cold in my face and I can hear only the wind – or is it my own blood rushing in my ears?

The worst has happened. There is nothing else I can do. I can’t see if there is ground below me but I know that for now, I am free. I can’t help but smile.