Not Every Door

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

Tali had participated in dozens of studies to supplement her paltry waitress’s income. But this one was excruciating; hours in a white-walled room with nothing but a door she was not allowed to open.

Her guess: they were researching temptation. Some participants were told not to open the door while others weren’t given these instructions. Which participants were more likely to open it? Those told not to, she wagered.

Or perhaps those who didn’t open it were compliant rule followers, a group she had certainly never been a part of. “You're always pushing limits,” she could hear her mother scold.

"Limits are meant to be pushed," she replied, pulling the door wide.

The fluorescent lights flickered beyond, intermittently illuminating an identical room, besides the darkness and a stench that nearly made her retch. Tali stepped forward, the door slamming shut behind her.

There was a faint movement in the corner. A woman was curled in fetal position. She tried to raise her head, moaned and let her head fall back down.

She was so familiar, brown hair that curled only at the ends like her own. But it wasn’t until Tali crouched down beside her that she saw the J-shaped scar across the woman’s cheek. Tali’s heart galloped as she traced the same scar on her own cheek from where she had scraped herself on a metal fence in third grade.

“You shouldn’t have come,” the other Tali murmured, voice raspy from lack of use, eyes closed again. “They won’t let us out, won’t feed us.”

Tali rushed back to the door, but it was locked of course.

“Well,” the other Tali said with a faint smile, cheek resting on the cold linoleum. “At least we’re in this together now.”