The prompt I used for this piece was “Write a story from the perspective of someone who has woken up in a room or place they do not recognize.” Having started and deleted two different story ideas before this, I was getting a little desperate. So I spun it into what I think is another weird little meditation on writer’s block, art as self-exploration, etc. Hopefully the next thing I write can just be a messed-up horror thing where I don’t have to agonize over it so much.
SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK?
The words appeared out of thin air, bleeding on to the sheet of paper in my hand. Their unseen author had straight, elegant penmanship. I could feel someone watching me through the black ink, daring me to answer truthfully.
“Well,” I said, “I guess I expected to find something else here.”
The first line of words faded away, and another one faded in to take their place. WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
“I thought I’d be in a train station. Or a waiting room. You know, the clichés about where you go when you’re dead.”
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU’RE DEAD?
“I don’t remember leaving the hospital,” I said. “I can stand up. I’m not wearing a ventilator anymore. And...and...” My legs wobbled, and I collapsed back on to the futon I woke up on.
YOU APPEAR SHOCKED.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
I SUGGEST YOU BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH YOUR ROOM. IT MAY HELP YOUR MIND ADJUST. I HAVE PREPARED IT JUST FOR YOU.
I looked around the room and thought that I’d never seen such a mess. Wood shavings, pencils and crumpled wads of paper littered the tile floor, mixed with a thin layer of dust. Splotches of dripping color dotted the gray stone walls here and there, like someone had thrown paint balloons at the uneven jumble of rocks. There was a single narrow, rectangular window where the wall met the ceiling, the kind you would find in a basement. It let in light, but I couldn’t see through the glass. A bright, thick haze covered any glimpse of the outside world, if there was one.
The room was overflowing with furniture, making it feel even smaller than it already was. One wall was lined with low bookshelves where ancient-looking, leatherbound tomes sat next to ratty old paperbacks with faded spines. Scrolls of parchment filled a whole shelf and still tumbled out on to the floor. I glimpsed a few blueprints in the middle of those piles. Strewn across the tops of the shelves were flowerpots, coffee cups full of pencils and dirty plates. Against the opposite wall sat a wide worktable covered in yet more dust. Tucked between its legs was a row of small crates with rope handles – drawers, probably. In front of me sat a coffee table, the one where I’d found the sheet of paper. It had been the only sheet not wrinkled or crumpled into a ball or covered with illegible scribblings.
Then I looked beyond all that, to the far end of the room. Two simple wooden doors looked back at me. No signs, no windows, no fancy carvings. Just two doors.
“So what are those?” I asked. “Heaven and Hell?”
OH, GOODNESS NO. I NEVER HAD MUCH USE FOR THAT SORT OF THING.
I felt an insufferable smirk behind the words, and I gritted my teeth. “Are you ever going to give me a straight answer, or just more cryptic BS?”
A LITTLE MORE RESPECT IS IN ORDER. I COULD BLINK YOU OUT OF EXISTENCE, YOU KNOW.
“I’ll take that chance.”
The next set of words came slower than before. BEHIND THE LEFT DOOR IS EVERYTHING ELSE YOU MAY NEED TO BE COMFORTABLE HERE. BEHIND THE RIGHT DOOR IS WHAT COMES NEXT. YOU MAY USE IT NOW, IF YOU WISH.
“Wait. That’s it?” I said. “I can just leave? I don’t have to wait for a million years or something?”
YOU COULD IF YOU WANTED TO. BUT I’VE NEVER MET ANYONE WHO WAITED THAT LONG.
“You ever meet anyone who left right away?”
NO.
I scoffed. “Sure you haven’t. This is probably some torture thing where you keep me here until I go nuts. What would the point of this place be if anyone could just walk out the door?”
I LIKE TO THINK OF IT AS A RESPITE. A PLACE TO GATHER ONE’S WITS AND REFLECT ON ONE’S LIFE. PEOPLE ARE GRATEFUL FOR SUCH AN OPPORTUNITY IF YOU GIVE THEM ONE. The paper was still for a few seconds, then another line of words appeared. EVERY BOOK YOU SEE ON THOSE SHELVES WAS WRITTEN BY SOMEBODY HERE, YOU KNOW.
“Really?” I looked back at the self, trying to count the daunting number of volumes.
MOST PEOPLE WHO COME HERE DON’T LEAVE UNTIL THEY HAVE MADE SOMETHING.
“Why? Is that your rule?”
WHAT THEY MAKE DOES NOT MATTER TO ME, ONLY THAT THEY ARE SATISFIED WITH IT. I BELIEVE IT HELPS THEM THINK.
I HAVE SEEN PAINTERS MAKE MURALS AND WRITERS CRAFT NOVELS, AND ALL MANNER OF THINGS. AND WHEN THE SOUL IS HEALED AND PREPARED FOR WHAT COMES NEXT, THERE IS THE DOOR.
“But I don’t have to deal with all that, right? I just want to get out of here.”
WHAT YOU DO IS YOUR CHOICE.
I wanted to get up and walk across the room right then, but my legs still felt like jelly. I looked at the two doors, foreboding in their nondescriptness. I looked at the bookshelves full of unread words from people who’d been here too. I looked at the window I couldn’t see, letting in light from a world I couldn’t guess about.
“It was 2 AM in the hospital,” I said. “Nobody was there. I didn’t...there were lots of things I didn’t get to say, you know?”
I SEE. THEN START WITH THOSE.
“But I don’t know how.”
THE RIGHT METHOD WILL COME TO YOU IN TIME. I CANNOT GUIDE YOU TO IT. I MERELY OBSERVE. GOOD LUCK.
The words vanished, leaving only a blank page. I kept it in my hand, staring at it. Then I looked to the floor and picked up a pencil. A worn-down pencil, halfway gone, but the tip was still sharp.
“You’ll do,” I said, and I began to write.