Forgotten Rules

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

There used to be other rules, but they weren’t important anymore. Something had changed, and now all that mattered was to keep the door closed.

The room could have been in a hospital or a prison. There was a bed, a small sink, a cracked mirror. He leaned over the faucet and let cold water fall onto his hands before he splashed his face.

Despite the dim overhead light, he could tell there was something wrong about his features when he looked at the distorted reflection. Like the rules, things had changed, though he could not remember exactly when, or why.

A void sat where his memories should be. He did not understand any of this, but he knew that this was a bad place. He needed to leave, but he could not break the only rule that still remained.

His eyelids narrowed as he studied the unfamiliar structures surrounding his pupils. They looked at first like cobwebs, though brilliant streaks of color began to creep out the longer he stared.

None of this was right.

A sound jerked his head away from the mirror, but the room remained unchanged. The light was constant if weak, and the door was as closed as ever. Still, he thought he had heard something. It might have been the click of the bolt, or the metal hiss of an old hinge.

He turned back to the mirror but he no longer focused on his peculiar appearance. The door was cracked open in the reflection. Pale light filtered into the room.

Finally, with growing unease, he remembered the first rule that did not matter anymore: never look into the mirror.