Between Doors, Mirrors, and Memories

I’m standing in front of two doors. The one on the left is a fairly light shade of blue, made completely out of wood. Even though the color is unnatural, the door doesn’t look like it was painted over. For some reason, it looks like the original wood was blue, as if taken from a tree from a fictitious world where trees can be blue and grass purple. It has a shiny golden doorknob on the left.

The second door is coral pink, and a complete mess. It looks as if it got assigned the job of being a door quite recently, but since it’s never been a door before, it’s not exactly sure how it’s supposed to look to resemble one. It has a pattern of straight lines starting on one of the top corners that continues all the way to the bottom, though somewhere along the way the lines started becoming wavy, and at the bottom they’re completely curly. Unlike the blue door, this one doesn’t have four 90-degree corners. Since the top corners aren’t directly above the bottom ones (they’re a bit further right), the door looks like a parallelogram straight out an elementary school kid’s math notebook. To make matters worse for the door, it doesn’t even have a doorknob, so I’m not even sure which way it’s supposed to open.

As I stand inspecting the two doors, I realize that I’m probably expected to choose between one of them. I look around the room, and it’s quite small. The only thing I see is white; white walls, white floor, and a white ceiling. There are no windows, so the only way out is through one of the doors.

I suddenly start feeling claustrophobic. I try to remember how I got here in the first place, and I’m horrified to discover that I have no memories of that at all. I had significant memory loss when I was little, so whenever I don’t remember something immediately, I get really scared.  I will myself to remember anything at all from the last few hours or days, and bits of information start coming to me little by little.

I remember a ball, a masquerade ball. My mom let me go; she said I was safe as long as a mask concealed my identity. I try to remember why my mom had implied that I was unsafe if people knew who I was, but nothing comes up. I keep trying to remember. An image of a guy who seems to be about my age appears on my mind. He’s wearing a golden venetian eye mask that’s tied around his head with a white ribbon, which is a nice contrast to his black hair. The formal impression his suit was supposed to emit is thrown away by his loose tie and untucked white shirt, which are as messy as his hair. I don’t remember ever seeing him before the masquerade ball, so I must’ve met him there. I’m not sure if he’s a friend or an enemy.

I take a step towards the pink door to inspect it more closely, and as I raise my left arm to feel its texture, an excruciating pain covers my whole arm. As I begin inspecting it to find the source of my pain, two things happen. First of all, since I’m looking down, I notice for the first time that I’ve been wearing a long dark blue dress this whole time. That means that, whatever happened, I got here after the ball. Then, as I touch my elbow, a sharp pain makes me dizzy and gives me a new memory, which is one of a person wearing a full-face mask pushing me against a wall. I remember trying to resist their grip as they tried to forcefully take me somewhere, but as I was making too much noise, they slammed into the wall to show me what they were capable of. I then remember the black-haired guy trying to fight the mystery person to save me, but then three more guys appeared and one of them knocked him out with a quick, rehearsed, blow on the back of his head. I guess he was a friend after all. The last thing I remember is being thrown into the back of a dark van, and then I ended up here.

I walk around the room touching the walls (with my right arm). There aren’t any secret latches or disguised doors. The only way out really is through one of the two doors. I sigh in exasperation. I’ve always been stubborn. They want me to choose a door, which makes me not want to choose one.

What if I sit down on the floor and do nothing, I think. But then I remember that I want to get out of here, so I stand between the two doors again and try to choose one.

Okay, I think. Put-together door or mental breakdown door? Well, if I had to choose based on the one I most resemble, It’d be the pink one.

I laugh at that, and then stop when I realize that I’m laughing alone, at a joke I told myself, in my head.

I shake my head and try to make a quick decision.

“Okay, the blue one,” I tell nobody. “But only because I like the color.”

I walk forward and open it by the handle. As I step into the next room, I’m surprised to see that it’s huge, and it’s covered with doors and doors. They’re all different colors, made of different materials, and have different patterns. I sigh. I’m a really indecisive person. I either take a million years to choose, or I make an impulsive decision; there’s no in between.

I quickly scan the room, wanting to get this over with quickly. A seemingly normal dark wooden door catches my attention. It stands out among the silly-colored ones. The only thing unusual about it is its doorknob, which is a bright lilac shade. It gives me the weirdest feeling of déjà vu, so I walk towards it and open it.

I enter the room and the door closes behind me. I try opening it again, but it’s locked. I start to panic, because I like knowing that there’s a way out, wherever I go, but since the door won’t budge, I turn around and inspect the room. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, and in front of it there’s a mirror that extends from floor to ceiling–one-way glass, I’m sure. I sit in the chair anyway and look at my reflection. I look like death itself. My light brunette hair looks like it was done up nicely but got seriously messed up. I’m covered with dirt, small cuts, and gashes all over. The dress looks like it was once very pretty, but now it’s ripped from multiple places. There’s a small bump on my side, and as I touch it, I realize that there’s a hard object in there. I suddenly remember the dark-haired boy giving me a dagger, and I take my hand away from it quickly, not wanting the people on the other side of the glass to know that it’s there.

“So it really is you,” a voice suddenly says. It’s a man’s voice. I get up quickly, startled by it. It’s coming from the other side of the mirror, I know it. “You really are Eliza Madden.”

“So?” I say, looking at the glass, even though the only thing I can see is my reflection. “What if I am?”

“We’ve been looking for you.” I notice that the voice has a slight British accent.

“Why?” When there’s no answer, I ask: “How did you even know who I was? How did you find me?”

“Well, that was the easy part.” I notice that the voice sounds louder than it should, so he’s probably using some sort of voice-amplifying mechanism. “It was foolish of you to come out of hiding. And then, once here, you basically confirmed your identity all by yourself.”

“By choosing the doors?”

“By choosing a door. The first one didn’t count, it was only a warmup. The two doors lead to the same room.”

I stare at the mirror in disappointment. I spent a lot of time choosing in the first room.

“Choosing the second door was what told us you were Eliza Madden.”

“But how? I barely know why I picked it.”

“Ah, but you do, Miss Madden. You felt a familiar feeling seeing it, didn’t you? Something you couldn’t quite place?”

“No, I didn’t,” I lie, even though that’s exactly what happened.

I try to remember why the door gave me that feeling, why it seemed so familiar to me, but nothing comes up.

“You won’t remember,” the voice says. “That memory is long gone.”

Is he reading my mind?

“Did...did you take it?” I stagger.

“Take your memory? No, we had no involvement in that. That happened many years ago.”

I sigh, completely lost.

“Look, pal, I don’t know how you found me, or what you want from me, but I can’t help you. I don’t remember anything.” I’m pretty furious now, with my lack of memories and with this whole situation.

“We don’t need your memories. We need your abilities. Rumors say you’re quite...skilled in some areas.”

What? As far as I’m aware, the only ability I have is acting impulsively.

“Look, we don’t want to hurt you. We’re not the bad guys here.”

I wonder if that’s true. I suddenly get a flash back of my mom telling me I had to keep my identity secret, or people would try to use me. I still can’t figure out what my secret ability is, and now I’m starting to realize that maybe it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about it at all. Maybe the memory left me all those years ago, and maybe it has something to do with the door.

“Okay, I’ll help,” I lie. “But first you’ll need to tell me what my secret ability is, or I won’t be able to do anything for you.”

There are a few seconds of silence. Then I hear some whispering. Finally, the man speaks again. “Look at the mirror.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time.” I say, a bit too annoyed.

The man ignores my comment. “Think of anyone at all and focus on how they look. Close your eyes and imagine their hair, eyes, and face. Don’t lose your concentration.”

I have no idea what this has to do with anything, but I comply. I close my eyes and imagine the dark-haired boy. I suddenly remember that his name is Connor. I see his dark, messy hair vividly in my mind. His light brown eyes appear too, along with his nose, lips, and ears. My memory’s always been vivid, so I’m seeing him very clearly now.

“Okay,” the man’s voice says. I’m still closing my eyes. “I can see that someone’s on your mind. Now, I want you to imagine that, when you look in the mirror again, he will appear before your eyes. But you have to really believe it.”

I try to imagine that he’ll be there in the mirror when I open my eyes. I take a deep breath and finally open them. What I see leaves me dumbfounded.

In the mirror, slowly coming into focus, is Connor. He’s on the phone with someone, and even though I can’t hear him, he seems to be talking very fast. He looks worried. As he turns around, I see that there’s a bandage on his head.

“Connor!” I yell out to him.

“Very good job,” the man says. “you’re the only one who can see him, so you’ll have to tell me what you see.”

I ignore him. “Connor!” I yell out again.

“He can’t hear you, and you’re the only one who can see him. Nor the contacted person, nor the people in the room with you, can see him.”

I stop trying to get Connor’s attention and turn my attention to the man. As I start focusing less on Connor, his image starts to fade.

“Okay, what is this?” I ask the man. “And if I’ve had this hidden power all along, why hasn’t this ever happened before? I don’t own many mirrors, but I’m sure I’ve thought about people while looking at a mirror at least a few times.”

“It’s called Reflection Linking. You can use a mirror to see anyone at all in the present time, as long as they’re near a reflective surface. Oh, and you can only use your ability if you’re aware that you have it,” the man replies.

“I’m guessing I acquired the powers inside the room with the door with the lilac doorknob?”

“No, you were born with them” the man says, as if it’s obvious. “They only carried out experiments on you in the room.”

“Oh,” I say quietly. “Wait, but why can’t I remember anything?”

“When your mom told them that she wasn’t going to allow them to continue experimenting on you, they decided that if you weren’t going to be of use to them, you wouldn’t be of use to anyone. Then they took all of your memories of it. You were seven at the time.”

Suddenly, everything makes sense to me. My memory loss as a kid, my mom homeschooling me–I realize that, even though she never told me, she knows everything. If she didn’t still have her memories, she wouldn’t be able to protect me and warn me about people who only want to use me. People like the ones who’re currently holding me hostage.

“Okay, and why do you want me?” I ask the man. “What do you need me for?”

“Well, that’s quite simple. We need you to help us find some people. You’ll be our official human tracker. We’ll pay you well.”

I have no interest in that at all. Besides, they’ll probably kidnap them like they did me, and if they’re not of use, I don’t doubt they’d end up dead.

“Okay fine, I’ll help,” I say. I turn around as if inspecting the room, so he doesn’t see when I take out the dagger. When it’s already in my hand, behind my back, I come back to the mirror and touch it. Then, in a quick motion, I stab it into the middle of the mirror with my good arm, using all of my strength. To my delight, it breaks really easily. Before long, I’m standing face to face with two men; one sitting on a chair and the other standing next to him. They both have shocked expressions on their faces.

I notice that there’s a door behind them. I hold the dagger out in front of me, and taking advantage of their shock, I make a run for it.

The only person I work for is myself, I think as I make my escape.