The End of the Tunnel

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It seems to be the only source of light in this world. So bright, yet so dim. From outside the cabin, you can’t even see the edges of the walls or the beginning of the roof, as the candle lights only a couple feet in each direction. I can’t even see where I’m standing. As if there is nothing but that candle. So it is me, this miniscule flame, and the structure surrounding it that are all that exist. There is no reason to believe that there is anything else in this world.

I slither through the window and land on the other side with a loud thunk that is as quiet as everything else. Just as silent. For there are no sounds, and there never have been. The thought of sound is such a strange notion. That there are people, most of them in fact, who HEAR things. That word… Such an incomprehensible thing both in what it entails and due to that fact that I have never HEARD what it SOUNDS like. But what is sound anyway. Perhaps it is something similar to the sensation of smell. Yet I can feel it. I know it is sound when I feel certain vibrations. And I know in those instances that it must be what others call “loud”. I assume the equivalent of what “strong” is to smell.

Did I wake up in this cabin or did I wake up outside of it? The light, so suddenly bright, hurts my eyes. Why am I here again? I can’t seem to find an answer to that. In fact, I can’t seem to find the answer to any question regarding my whereabouts. I know only a few things at this point. I remember being outside, and nothing before that. Peering outside into the bleak darkness, I see nothing but pure black, even upwards there isn’t a star or moon to be seen. Nor any trees. The light extends nowhere and the ground outside isn’t visible. Sticking my head out of that small window I can almost get a sensation of what it must be like to be blind. But who would want to be deaf AND blind? I pull my head back into the room.

Although it is so dark outside, that one, seemingly dim, candle, lights up this whole room tremendously. In fact, it’s almost too bright.

The smell of mildew and dust invade my nostrils along with the bright light. The room however is neat and clean, if a little poorly fashioned. It feels old. The door on the other side of the room seems to be the obvious place to venture. The knob however, doesn’t turn, not even a millimeter. Feeling calm up until this point, claustrophobia starts to make its way into my head, but rather than fear, mostly frustration keeps my heart pumping so strongly. Pumping into my ears, I may not hear the “Ba-Bump” of my heartbeat, but I can feel it moving inside my head.

The door only slightly shifts when I try to force it, slamming my body against it only to find myself hurting my shoulder and foot.

Something starts to move. A small vibration in the ground grows. Something fast is moving along the hallway outside this door. It’s slamming on the floor outside, getting stronger as it gets closer. Until it ceases briefly. The door shifts inward slightly, again and again. I put my hand on it and feel something pounding against the other side. The vibrations start again. The pounding stops, and the movement flees into the distance.

I sit on the bed, eyes wide, feeling around trying to get a sense of what is happening. Frustration slowly turning into fear.

Don’t lose yourself. Don’t lose your cool.

A deep exhale pushes some of the stress out. I position myself to lay on the bed, feeling a little lightheaded. The bed feels soft and comforting, more so than any inanimate object could possibly be. It’s a mother’s hug, you know everything is going to be okay. The warmth showers over you and releases the tension from your muscles. It comes from all sides, soothing, warm.

Sinking. Deeper and deeper.

CONSTRICTING!

Empty darkness again, falling down hard and fast, choking on the air that’s too quickly entering my lungs. I blink.

Brightness invades my retinas. I’m again laying on a bed in an old room. Could that possibly have been a dream? Fearfully, the bed becomes distant as I leap to the other side of the room. Sliding down the wall, collecting splinters in my blouse, I land to a stop at the floor. Head tucked in my arms which rest on my knees, staring at that bed, waiting for it to move.

Waiting.

I’ll need to move at some point. I look out the window. The darkness beyond, less welcoming than this odd room.

Waiting.

I feel almost tired. My head slides into the nooks of my folded arms. I close my eyes, and there is darkness. I open them and its brightness. I close them, again, darkness. I open them…

There's a crack in the door. Long and thin, splintering inwards.

The door pushes slightly inwards, and the door cracks again, inaudibly.

There's nowhere to go. I look out the window.

An ax rips through the wood.

I stand outside the window and look out into the emptiness beyond, eyes squinting when I look back in to see a hand reach into the room, reaching for the doorknob. The long sleeve encasing the arm, tan with a band of reflective yellow. My nerves slack and I turn away from the window. The door knob again ceases to budge. The ax comes through once more and a large man walks in. Not the intimidating person that she originally would have expected to be bursting through that door. Not some murderer with an ax. It was a firefighter. A middle aged man with a kind face that she could almost recognize, but didn’t.

He looks around the room and says something that I can’t hear, finishing his sentence with a questioning look. So I do what I usually do, point at myself, shake my index finger, and point at my ears to imply that I can’t hear. I then point at my mouth and then my eyes. The man nods, faces me and slowly says, “I can help get you out of here… Wherever here is”. He smiled lightly, but his eyebrows betrayed that smile, telling that he wasn’t sure. He reached out a hand twice as big as my own, and I grabbing onto it, we leave the room.

The hallway is endless, doors on either side, spaced far apart, stretched on into the immeasurable distance. We start walking briskly. As we pass by each door, the fireman chops a hole, peers inside, sees nothing and walks on. The further down the hall, the more doors appear. My feet start to hurt, feeling sore from having walked what so far is likely a mile at least. Both of us had been facing forward, exchanging no words. I pull on the sleeve of his jacket, and sit down. He looks at me again with those kind, worried, eyes, “Good idea”.

We sit down, feet stretched out in front of us. I feel a slight movement. Looking to my right I see the firefighters face contort from worry and kindness to discomfort and fear. His head is moving in different directions as he is clearly hearing something. He looks at me with those terrified eyes. They tire and slack, becoming a serious and a stale gaze that pierces through my soul. He leans forward and questioningly squints his eyes. He looks left, then right, and back at me. As I lean a little backwards and put my hands on the floor, ready to push myself up, he leans more forward, and puts a hand on the floor as well. We stare each other down, both pairs of eyes widened for different reasons.

I make the first move.

The deep vibrations behind me can be felt every time my feet briefly touch the floor. They move so fast, and I can already feel myself tiring out. I look back at those now inhuman, bloodshot eyes, ax held up in the air, ready to fall. He charges like a bull and is inches away. The ax comes down, misses barely.

The distance closes in.

It comes down again, faster and harder. I leap out of the way.

Now on the floor, the ax raises up and crashes down like a guillotine. I close my eyes, no scream comes out. It feels like seconds are passing in what should have been a fraction of one. The seconds continue on and nothing happens.

My eyes open again and there’s nobody there.

Sweating profusely and hyperventilating, I look left, right, left again, right again. Nothing there.

I get up hurriedly and look at the doors that had been chopped through, reaching in and checking the doorknob, trying to find a way out. Any way out. Hell, even the window at this point, because clearly there’s no end in here. The first door doesn’t work. I run down the line to the next door. The crack is too thin. The next door. The door knob is just reachable on the inside. It has a turning lock. I turn it and unlock the door, jump inside and slam the door behind me.

The brightness hurts my eyes.

It’s identical to the first room. There's a window with that same candle in it. And the window is open. Again, the outside is pitch black. I hurtle through and start to jog alongside the building, afraid to leave the light and venture into the unknown. Moving along, the brightness of the candle behind becomes increasingly dim while a light ahead continues to brighten. Another window. Identical room. Tears run down my face, their salty flavor seeping through my lips.

Another light gets brighter. Same room. Not knowing whether to go on or give up, I continue running, faster and faster. Same room. Same room. SAME ROOM!

Same room…

My body almost too quickly grinds to a halt.

There’s a person in this room. A young woman with long black hair and eyes, green as a Scottish pasture. It’s me. And my lips are moving. I’m gesturing. To someone else in the room. I move my body to get an unobstructed view of the other side of the room to see another almost recognizable face.

They appear to be in an argument. I don’t talk though. Why are my lips moving? The one that doesn’t look like me advances and hits the one that looks like me with a powerful slap. My fists banging against the window fail to grab the attention of the two people in the room. The lookalike punches in rebuttal. Now looking completely furious, the other one rushes out of the room. The one that is me but isn’t, stands there, arms crossed, saying something inaudible. Then her eyes grow wide, and her hands go up. As she starts walking backwards, the other lady, now holding a kitchen knife, advances into view.

In a flash of motion, the kitchen knife jabs forward, gets knocked to the side. Other me fishes in her pocket for a green butterfly knife and stabs through the air into the other woman. Then she stabs her again. And again. And they fall to the floor, and the older lady stops crying.

And I remember that face. How could I ever forget my mother?

The other me stood above the body, looking down, almost in satisfaction as I looked on in excruciation. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The girl in the window, still holding the knife, turns and peers through.

Her eyes were each their own deep, black and green abyss.

I looked into that abyss, and…

She looked back at me.

It’s neither pitch black nor endlessly dark. It’s a warm tone of light in a cold room. I’ve just awoken from a dream. But I’m not in my bed. And it wasn’t exactly a dream.

I’m in a chair. I look around and slowly begin to remember where I am. Had I any tears left to shed, I would have. I’m wearing an orange jump suit and am strapped down to a cold metal chair on a linoleum floor, a machine weighing down on my head, an inquisitive man in front of me.

“So you still think like that huh?

Are ya fucking kidding me!?

The chair he was sitting in glides across the room. I recoil as he points a hairy finger in my face.

“Self defense…”

He pulls the finger away so he can pace the room. "My ass.

Oh and you’re still playing deaf? Pffft. Give me a break…”

I look on questioningly, slowly beginning to remember what this is all about. That dream? It was a memory wasn’t it? Her mother was dead, and I had killed her. But it did happen like it did in her “dream”, except the talking, she’s never said a word in her life. This man. This “psychiatrist” didn't seem to think so.

The man grabs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“Just how many times are we gonna have to do this before we get you rehabilitated?”

He turns around, still talking.

Looking back at me, he says with a cold look in his eyes, “As many times as we need to.” and for a brief second, I see a smirk. The slightest, quickest hint of one. And with emphasis, he stares at me directly with those cold blue eyes and with enough force for me to feel it, says,

“Run it again”.