Not the Bathroom

“There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Unless you’re holding her hand,” you say to yourself quietly.

The worlds, the wonders, so different, so marvelous, each accessible from the Hall of Worlds. Your teacher, Claire had started with the harmless. A green jungle with fluffy ball shaped trees, and big-eyed rainbow birds singing sweet songs. A peaceful water world, shimmering under a purple sky. A world that appeared as one big marshmallow.

Gradually, she showed you the dangerous worlds as well. A black cinder landscape, volcanoes sputtering in the distance. A valley filled with yellow toxic fog. A dark swamp with beady-eyed creatures in skeletal branches.

Claire had said, over and over, "You cannot open these doors unless you're holding my hand. Until you learn to summon a door, it's just too dangerous."

In all honesty, you had not meant to open this door. In fact, you'd been asking for weeks for the Council to mark the bathroom more clearly.

As when traveling with Claire, you'd turned the knob and found yourself in a new world. Disoriented, you'd stumbled through, and fell to ground. The door opened all the way on its hinges and started to swing shut behind you.

These thoughts flash through your head in an instant, and your spoken words fall flat in this empty space. It is pitch-black. You strain your eyes to see, but there is nothing to see. Where light from the door should illuminate a path, there is only blackness. The ground is cold and rough. In the absence of sensory input, the sound of your heartbeat and ragged breath are deafening.

Behind you, the door completes its swing, clicks shut, and disappears.

You scramble back, hands frantically reaching for the door you know is no longer there.