Rules

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

Rules are made to test you. To see if you have strength of will; get one candy now, or two candies if you wait. What do you choose?

The room is dark. The air is dank and cold. A tray of food comes once a day through a slot at the bottom of the door. When the tray is pushed through, light filters in along with it. Just for a second. Light from the outside. And a soft breeze. They bring with them a promise of freedom.

The door is not locked, but you can’t open it.

Why not?

That’s the rule.

Time moves unbearably slow in the room. No sounds. No sights or smells, except that of the damp, cold cement.

Don’t open the door.

Those who follow rules show perseverance.

Patience.

Those who follow rules deserve the reward.

What is the reward?

Freedom.

It’s just on the other side of the door.

Don’t open it.

I stood in the quiet, enclosed courtyard, the door to the room open. I wiped the blood slowly off the axe with just one finger and watched as it dripped off of it and down, onto the still rolling head beneath my feet.

She had opened the door.

That’s ok.

There was another. I had more hopes for her. She’d do better.

If you can’t follow rules, you don’t get the reward.