A Door In A Field

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

It was hard to understand, because there’s nothing behind the door. It’s a regular wooden door in a wooden frame, in an empty field near the lake in our Community’s compound, attached to nothing. The bottom of the frame is braced with stone blocks, but there’s nothing else.

Our Community takes the rule seriously.

Like every community, ours has guidelines for harmony: what relationships are allowed, when we eat, who can breed. But the door rule was the only hard rule, the only thing punishable by death, not extra labor or a month of reflection in the hotbox.

When it came out that my cousin Seth had drunkenly promised to open the door on a dare, I was the one chosen to kill him. The elders tied him down, but it fell on me to do the cutting. They covered his face to make it easier on me, but I still remember the sounds he made.

I knew the door was dangerous because, a few years after Seth died, Uncle Frank was found in the field with his head smashed to a pulp. Weird, because he was often the one to watch over me when it was my turn to repaint the door, his shotgun held at low ready.

I don’t know why I did it - thinking too much about Seth, maybe - but last night the cameras went down, and I snuck to the field and opened the door.

There was nothing. Nothing behind the door (but I already wrote that). No bolt from beyond to smash my head. Nothing.

Now I finally understand. After I post this, I’ll walk to the lake and take those stone blocks in with me. I’ll see you soon, Seth.