Such A Lovely Place

Blue. The sky way blue. Not, as it would happen, an unusual colour for the sky to be. Rather, it was what one might expect. Though, Remi was surprised, nonetheless. For some reason, on that Tuesday, he felt the sky should not be blue.

Perhaps it was the right colour for a Thursday, Wednesday at the most extreme. But never a Tuesday. No. Blue was rather the correct colour.

Different blue as it were. Or rather, the blue it should have been.

Things were like that. Had been for… how long now? How long did it take to notice the shades of the sky?

He did not tear his eyes away from the sky. One did not do things like that, not since going through the Door. Instead, they wandered vaguely ground-ward.

There were two ways out. Two doors away from the sky, one through which he had come - though it might not lead back the same way - and the other, not yet tried.

Looking first one way, then allowing his attention to wander the other, he questioned which door he would pick. Things tended to be like that, depending on the time of day. And the room he was in. One could not always make all choices; on occasion they were made for one instead.

Idly, his fingers ran through the grass on which he sat. It was not such a bad place, this room. There was a gentle sun in a peaceful sky, calm wind caressing his skin.

Eventually, there would be food. There was always food in such rooms. Not in all, of course not in all, but he had been lucky to avoid many of those so far.

Others had, as is the way of things, not been so lucky. And it was luck, at the end of the logic train, sadly it could not be attributed to anything else.

He wondered what would happen if he stayed in that room. If he just sat there under the gentle sun, for the rest of his life. A living statue.

Many such lay scattered through the endless, twisting corridors. Laying in repose, simply waiting though those few who could speak never told him, or else claimed not to know, for what they waited. Would he be one such? A statue that spoke to those who yet wandered the halls of the place, giving nor receiving anything but a temporary companion.

Else, might he be one of the silent watchers? A statue whose eyes could barely lift from their endless, sightless staring to notice another in the room? It was possible, he had seen it often enough. Though he did not know how exactly one came to be like that. How one came to sit in a green room with unseen sun shining down on them. Waiting forever.

A roll of some kind was in his hand now, and he realized that he was hungry. It was a good room, a nice place in which to sit and watch the motionless world go by. He could wait there forever, or so it felt to him, lethargy slowly turning his limbs to living stone until he did not even notice the few figures that might join him. Assuming, of course, that any did.

Curious, he turned his head, quite the effort that, and gazed lazily around him. No other persons occupied the room with him. No other wanderer sat on the grass; faces tilted up to catch the rays of a sun that could not be seen. He was alone, though it did not feel that he was.

Indeed, though the room was one in which he might pass the rest of eternity in what might be called contentment, he was not as alone as he thought.

No eyes were on him. At least, none that he could feel, though that did not always matter a great deal. Sometimes there were eyes that could not be felt, a rising of the hairs on his neck to tell him he was being watched. Others there was only the knowledge that a presence shared the space with him.

But as to what that presence was, he could only know when and if it revealed itself to him. Such was the way of things in some rooms, less so in others, though he knew that only by report. So far, his luck had been good, since passing through the door. Goodness, but how long ago had that been?

Perhaps it would be most useful to attempt a count of the rooms he had been in. There was never much sense of time in the hallways and rooms. And yet, he had tried such a method before, had he not? Tried and quickly lost track of where he had been, as easily as he forgot how long it had been since he last met another living soul.

Things could be remembered, dredged out of his memory as bikes were sometimes dredged from rivers and canals. If only he put in the right kind of effort, and that effort itself depended on the room in which he sat. Not that he knew which kind of room would work until he stood or sat or ran through it, of course. No, such simplicity had no place in the life he now lived.

Oh, that was a thought rarely thought before. Perhaps he was not living anymore, perhaps the passage through the door he had not meant to enter had been the end of his life. And that could only mean that the space he now occupied was the hereafter. It would answer some questions, though more sprouted in its wake like bubbles in the trail of a passing ship.

And if he were no longer a living soul, then why did his heart still beat? Was it a memory of the life he had lived before coming to the door? A certain amount of sense was in the thought. He could feel pain, but if he was neither in Heaven nor Hell, then pain was expected. A third place, then?

Dante's Divine Comedy, assuming that it could be taken as Gospel, did mention that third place. And it did not resemble where he now was. That had been a place of suffering, though a suffering that was meant to cleanse one's soul; and while there was suffering aplenty to be found among the rooms and passageways, it was not constant.

His hand was scratching at the stubble on his chin. Surely, he must have shaved at some point if he were not dead. Though, he could not recall having done so. Therefore, the beard should have been long. He remembered waking several times meaning he must have slept.

Time must have passed, but he could not remember how long. Nor yet how many times he had slept. There had been enough periods of rest that his beard must have grown longer than it was, so he must have shaved. But when?

Before his eyes, slyly sideling into his thoughts without wrenching him from his contemplation, the door opened. It was not the door through which he had some, but rather the other. Still scratching at his cheek, he eyed the door, wondering who or what might come through.

What might... were there other things? He assumed there must be. So many things made sense if only he did not think about them, and yet trying not to think of them was worse than simply ignoring them. Passively allowing the thoughts to skate across his mind and vanish into the void.

"How long since you checked in?"

Voices did speak to him from time to time, in that place where time did not seem to pass so much as leap from present to past. But rarely did they ask questions of him, rarely ever did they wait for a response. He ignored the voice, since it had not come from anyone he could see.

Instead, he continued to blindly stare at the door that had opened. It was closed, and though he tried to recall its closing, he remembered only that it had been open.

A roll of some kind was in his hand, then it was between his teeth. Flavour did not seem to exist on that roll, as though it were only nutrients that he was not certain he needed. If he were in a room where there would be food, then it was in his hand before he was aware of hunger.

Though it was rarely so flavourless.

Repeating itself, the voice asked its question again. Perhaps repeating was the wrong word for it, something or other had shifted in the intonation. Almost like the speaker had lost hope of answer and was only asking out of obligation.

Decidedly strange, that second heard request for information. It carried the sense of a question asked many times, each one without a response. Interest was waning, though the questioner had taken the effort to ask it more than once.

"I was young, I think," Remi responded, wondering at his own voice after so long in personal silence. "The sky was blue, I remember that. Unlike in here."

"Pardon?"

"Today's a Tuesday. The sky's supposed to be blue, not blue."

"You're insane."

"Or maybe you are. Can't even tell the difference between a Tuesday sky and a Thursday sky." The rest of the roll was gone, he could feel its absence in his mouth. "Who's crazier, the one who can tell or the one who thinks it's all the same?"

"Why are you here?"

"Because I checked in."

"When can I leave?"

"When you go back through the door."

"And where is that?"

"Ahead. Or maybe behind."

Silence stretched. Remi did not mind. It was what he had grown most used to, since his time in that place had begun. At first, he had lingered in places where even the living statues sat or stood, but eventually his only solace had become his own company.

The only company that never grated on him. The only one that made any real sense. Over his head, the sky shifted from blue to blue. A Friday's blue, still not as it should have been.

Creases appeared between his eyebrows. This room was, perhaps not the correct one in which to sit and wait for time to pass. If the sky was not as it should be, nor the food pleasant, then it was time to move on.

Ahead of him, the door stood closed. He could open it, he knew that. There had only been one locked door, since he entered that place. Since he passed through an empty room that had neither walls nor ceiling nor sky.

From the depths of his memory, he pulled the image of that door. It had been large, ornate he believed. And there had been... a different voice? Perhaps he should ask a question of the newest one, just to be polite.

"And you?"

"I just arrived."

Interesting.

"The woman behind the counter said that I... anyone could check in any time they wanted. But..."

"You want something to eat?"

Remi handed the stranger a roll without looking over at them. Hesitantly, it was taken from him, and all returned again to stillness.

"I'm going through that door," he raised his hand and pointed lethargically towards the one through which he had not come but had stood open what felt like moments or a lifetime before. "If you're ever in a room with a blue sky, instead of a blue one, leave. That's where things happen."

"Don't we want things to happen?"

"Things are good. Things are bad, if things start to happen, I hope you remember how to run."

He stood, ambling towards the door. Time could pass in an instant or take an eternity. Either way, the voice had come from somewhere outside where the sky was always blue instead of blue, so maybe he was near the door.

Anyone could check in any time. But he had a feeling that none could ever leave. Not that there was any risk of running out of space. There was always room behind the first door. Always more space among the living statues.

"Will I see you again?"

"If you remember me. Otherwise, we'll meet again for the first time. Remember what I said about the sky. If it's blue, run."

The door closed behind him and he was in a long, dimly lit hall. Overhead, the ceiling was grey. Which was the correct colour for a ceiling to be. Heaven forbid it was grey instead, since the door behind him was gone.

Fin.

-0-

This odd little story of mine was inspired by sitting around a campfire while my friend L-R sang "Hotel California." Seems only correct that I dedicate it to him.

Thank you all for reading!

Love,

Alex