The First Person

She enters the room. The door, she knows, has been here - unpainted wooden panels, plain brass knob, no keyhole - between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening of every day, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever been inside.

There is a noise, a groan, though the hinges feel smooth, and she feels at once the cold, damp air on her face and the warmth of the hall on her back. What had she been hoping for? A linen closet? A little nook where she might put unwanted things she could not throw away? But this is a whole room, impossible between the bedroom and the bathroom, but here nonetheless, a turret like circle painted once in a desert pink with stars in faded gold or picked out in bare patches against a deep blue ceiling which sags in the middle where a dark congregation of moulds spread creeping tendrils out and down, around thick velvet curtains and along the floor to lap at the feet of a spindle legged table.

She breathes something dank and foreboding, her olfactory bulb alerting her on some primal level to take care, to go no further, not to breathe too deeply, and she feels an inexplicable fear that were she to step fully inside the door might close behind her and disappear into the cracking plaster, and yet there is a draw, a pull, that fingertip curiosity around the loosening edge of a scab, and she wonders for a moment whether she might drag in the laundry hamper or her bedside table to wedge the door, but the thought seems increasingly irrelevant because on the table is a small stack of clean white paper, and beside it a pen with an arrowhead nib that she knows has always belonged to her.

She moves into the room, and the door falls back against its frame, but does not click home. She does not look at the curtains, imagines that behind, there will be a window, and from the window, she will see hills and valleys with nestled towns stretch out below, does not imagine that she might see her own street, or something awful laying in wait, or wall, just wall, and nothing more. She sits, picks up the pen, and finding it empty uses that keen, sharp nib to open the vein at her wrist and draw blood into the reservoir. And then she begins to write.

When she is done, she sleeps, and dreams she is a rabbit and a fox, leaving a trail of blood upon the grassy floor. She feels pain, and hunger, fear and need, despair and hope, and then a warmth that spreads through her belly and into her limbs as the snow begins to fall in the dark until she is covered in white. Shivering, she wakes and unclenches her teeth, rises from her bed, shuffles in sleepy nausea towards the bathroom, but pauses, along the way, at another door.

She enters the room. The door, she knows, has been here – a plain white panel, silver handle, no keyhole - between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening of every day, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever been inside.

There is a noise, a creaking, though the hinges feel smooth, and she feels at once the cold, damp air on her face and the warmth of the hall on her back. What had she been hoping for? A boiler? A hidden garbage chute? But this is a whole room, impossible between the bedroom and the bathroom, but here nonetheless, a slender rectangle painted once in summer yellow with flowers in faded crimson or picked out in bare patches below a pale ceiling which sags in the middle where a dark congregation of moulds spread creeping tendrils out and down, around thick velvet curtains and along the floor to lap at the feet of an old oak desk.

She breathes something dank and foreboding, her olfactory bulb alerting her on some primal level to take care, to go no further, not to breathe too deeply, and she feels an inexplicable fear that were she to step fully inside the door might close behind her and the mould thrust out and seal it shut, and yet there is a draw, a pull, that tongued curiosity around a split in the lip, and she wonders for a moment whether she might leave her slipper or the band from her hair to wedge between the door and the frame, but the thought seems increasingly irrelevant because on the desk is a small stack of clean white paper, and beside it a pen with an arrowhead nib that she knows has always belonged to her.

She moves into the room, and the door falls back, but does not close. She does not look at the curtains, imagines that behind, there will be a window, and from the window, she will see a river, clean and clear and abundant with fish, snaking away towards the sea far below, does not imagine that she might see her own street, or something awful laying in wait, or wall, just wall, and nothing more. She sits, picks up the pen, and finding it empty uses that keen, sharp nib to pierce her eye and draw the fluid into the reservoir. And then she begins to write.

When she is done, she sleeps, and dreams she is a lamb and a vulture, only half dead, half still dying, pulling the eyes from the face while the breath still sucks at the chest. She feels terror, and greed, sadness and impatience, despair and hope, and then a calm that flows down her spine and over her skull as the sun blazes overhead and bleaches all the world clean. Sweating, she wakes and unlocks her knees, rises from her bed, slumps in sleepy nausea towards the bathroom, but pauses, along the way, at another door.

She enters the room. The door, she knows, has been here –thick hardwood planks, iron ring, no keyhole - between her bedroom and the bathroom every morning and every evening of every day, and yet she cannot remember if she has ever been inside.

There is a noise, a moan, though the hinges feel smooth, and she feels at once the cold, damp air on her face and the warmth of the hall on her back. What had she been hoping for? A broom cupboard? A fire escape? But this is a whole room, impossible between the bedroom and the bathroom, but here nonetheless, a patchwork of planes, rough edged stone, painted once with animals in faded ochre or picked out in dark patches across walls and a jagged ceiling, which dips in the middle where a dark congregation of moulds spread creeping tendrils out and down, around an animal pelt and along the floor to base of a smoothed rise of stone.

She breathes something dank and foreboding, her olfactory bulb alerting her on some primal level to take care, to go no further, not to breathe too deeply, and she feels an inexplicable fear that were she to step fully inside the door might close behind her and the rocks tumble from above to block her way, and yet there is a draw, a pull, that scratching curiosity of the eye that has to see the worst, and she wonders for a moment whether she might leave her wrist watch or her robe against the door frame to keep the door from sealing, but the thought seems increasingly irrelevant because on the stone is a small stack of clean white paper, and beside it a pen with an arrowhead nib that she knows has always belonged to her.

She moves into the room, and the door falls back, but does not close. She does not look at the skin, imagines that behind, there will be a window, and from the window, she will see a forest of trees, tall and verdant and teeming with life, does not imagine that she might see her own street, or something awful lying in wait, or wall, just wall, and nothing more. She sits, picks up the pen, and finding it empty uses that keen, sharp nib to tear into her gut and draw the juices into the reservoir. And then she begins to write.

When she is done, she sleeps, and dreams she is a seal and an orca, spilling blooded entrails into the sea. She feels horror, and excitement, agony and satisfaction, despair and hope, and then a cool that ripples through her veins, stilling her heart and her lungs as the surf breaks over her in foaming white. Numbed, she wakes and pulls in air, startling as her dog noses my hand, whining lightly, seeking her eye. I rise from her bed, lurch in sleepy nausea towards the bathroom, but pause, along the way, at another door.

I enter the room. The door, I know, has been here – painted to match the wall, a broken handle hanging limp over an empty keyhole - between every door I exit and the one she enters next every minute of every day, and I know I have been inside, have walked on by, have tried to brick it up, tried to smash it down, tried to festoon it with balloons and streamers and call it a party, and yet each day it persists.

There is a noise, a groan, and a tightness in my throat, and I feel at once the cold, damp air on my face and the warmth of the hall on her back. What had I been hoping for? A welcoming hug? A smack in the face? But this is a whole room, impossible between the bedroom and the bathroom, but here nonetheless, a cell of ulcerated flesh, burst pustules picked out in reddened welts against the pulsating uterine walls through which a dark congregation of moulds spread creeping tendrils out and down, around thick labial folds to lap at the feet of a pink plastic table.

I breathe something living and dead, my olfactory bulb alerting her on some primal level to take care, to go no further, not to breathe too deeply, and I know that were I to step fully inside the door would be subsumed by muscle and blood and canker, and yet there is a draw, a pull, the prying of a fist inside the birth canal, pulling at the cervix, , and she feels the will to withdraw, to close the door, to walk away, but the thought seems increasingly irrelevant because on the table is a small stack of clean white paper, and beside it a pen with an arrowhead nib that she knows - I know - has always belonged to me.

I move into the room, and the door is only a memory. I look at the heavy, blood filled folds of flesh and imagine that behind there will be something awful, but that beyond it, if I can pass it, I will see wall, just wall, and nothing more, or my street, leading away to the snow-capped hills, to the clear water, to the forests that breathe so that I too can breathe. I sit, pick up the pen, and finding it empty uses that keen, sharp nib to suck the saliva from my mouth, filling the reservoir. And then I begin to write.

When I am done, I sleep, and dream I am a blade of grass. I watch the monster come and I see that it is hungry and fearful, that it is excited and sad. It does not see me, but it sees the pages I have written and it licks at them, paws at them, tears at them with its teeth, but the story stays whole, and I feel a strength saturating my body, bathing my mind, as the dream begins to fade. Quietly, I wake and stretch the muscles of my back. I rise from my bed and step in steady strides from my bedroom to the bathroom next door.