Reflections in a Sliding Door

“Hellllp! Help me!!” I screamed into the sliding door. “I don’t know what to do! Help me!” 

The door slid right down the wall 

Slipping right under my fingers 

I ran over to the end of the hallway and caught it just in time, my fingers grasping the door handle just in time for the wall to twist and turn but I held tightly on and fell painfully sideways against the wall as it twisted once more. 

I pushed with all my strength and the door slid open long enough for me to throw my whole weight toward the opening. The slippery sliding time compression caught my foot, and then it caught my leg, and then it caught my middle and then it finally caught the rest of me. 

The dark entrails of my past could no longer slither and scratch their way to me and as I succumbed to the time compression, I was comforted by the hopeful reward of illusion. 

I awoke, to the rhythmic pounding at what seemed to be my bedroom door. I stumbled out of bed and went to grasp the knob when it exploded in my face, as well as the stranger before me. Though it seemed, I was not a stranger to her. 

“Maggie, what the fuck are you looking at? Get out of bed! You are going to be late, and you look…” and as she looked me up and down, I recognized it, the face that held such detestation, and I thought 

‘Oh, I’m Maggie,’ 

and I thought, 

“I know that look.”

and I thought, 

“My past 

is my past 

is my past.”

and I thought  

“Maybe I will find freedom, 

and I thought,

maybe in another life.” 

And because, even in time compressions, time is an echoed rhythm I said, “ I’m up.” 

She nodded with satisfaction and muttered, “Your dad is taking you to school. He’s going to need help.” 

Help. Wasn’t I just asking for help myself? I knew what this kind of help meant. Help meant putting on my father’s socks and shoes, even though he could do it himself.  Help meant submitting myself to his humiliation which became my own humiliation. Help became humiliation and help became a painful burden as I carried the wound of help around with me like a stone upon my back. 

I rolled my eyes, and time rolled through, as I decided I no longer wanted to participate in the play written out for me. I threw some clothes on and walked out the front door, choosing the sliding door of time, rather than participating in my own demise. 

As the sun hit my eyes the slithery sliding door came into view again and I was again running. 

Running after the sliding door again.

Running after that second chance - called mercy, whatever that means. 

Running away from dread.

I get to the door down the hall and I catch the handle just like before, and I throw my weight down through the slight space in between the door and the latch. The space, I notice, is getting smaller and I hope that it’s enough. I hope I don’t end up running forever, hiding forever. 

And I wake up. This time in a tall room. The ceilings seem to scrape the sky and the windows are long and wide. This room should feel elegant with its tall ceiling its tall windows,and its tall door, but instead, it feels like a leftover room. Uncared for and unwanted. Dirt and grime collect in the corners, the sheets are yellowing and the dirt-covered windows make the sun feel shallow. 

Then he walks in, the man I once knew. Tall and handsome and proud. Knowing and confident with his handsome face and the twinkle in his eyes and then time does the sliding. 

He enters not once, not twice, but countless times. Over and over he walks through the door and in some moments he kisses me on the cheek, and in some moments he ignores me completely and in some moments the weight of the world is heavy on his shoulders. I know this story - another echo of my own and I think, while time is on repeat, “I never knew how much I didn’t love him until it crushed him” 

The last time he never came in, and I thought the time loop had come to an end, but it hadn’t, in fact, the longer it went the sadder it went until I was running again. Knowing the despair, the loss of him was the loss of me, knowing that mercy couldn’t catch up with all the ruining.  

I ran down the darkened hallway for the last time, I knew and time knew - third times the charm - certainly time was clever enough to spread that trick around. 

I ran and I grasped and I clasped the latch. I slammed my whole body through the sliding glass door, for there was just a sliver of space - just enough for my audacity to take place. 

My body, in its great mass, went flying through the glass and with it pain. Suffering beyond belief, the kind I spent many years fleeing was now pressing down upon me. 

This time compression wasn’t like the other times. This was like dying. The pain started in the middle of myself and crawled outward, like my scratching and slithering past. The pain crept down my veins and right to my heart. In turn, my brittle heart broke and the pieces of glass fly away. 

I’m left awake. I’m left awake during the time compression - this time regression for as I sink deeper into this dreadful depression I see every memory laid before me. Every momentary trouble, every lost sob, and every woman I could have been if I hadn’t been me. I keep awake as the compression takes me to a place, to a space I don’t recall, and instead of being someone else, I remain myself, and instead of escaping my slithering sliding past, I find myself holding it in my hands. Instead of the echo of time, I find a rhythm, like a heartbeat, and as I handle my exposed wounds I realize the gift of insight. 

I no longer have to run away from myself and my pain. I no longer have to wish away a life that's been violently stained. All the sliding door moments of life, every wound found and hidden away, is laid out bare before me in a strange new way. 

As I sit in this dry, empty place. The wind swirls around my face and I hear mixed in with the breeze

 a rhythm first. A beat upon a beat upon the very breath of life. Then I see the melody upon the breeze and taste the harmony coming right beneath and as they sing I know that time is no mere curse, but a gift as well. Time, the orator of life, is the greatest mercy of both love and sorrow, and I hug my pain, my wounds, every single lost gain, as it hugs me tightly in return and I know this embrace will 

end eventually.

Now I’m awake. The story has just begun.