How to Choose a Life

Diane had been walking through the white halls for hours, gazing through the hundreds, maybe thousands of windows. All different sizes, and even some different shapes, rimmed with white, black, gold, silver, and an iridescent metallic color, the windows were spaced about three feet apart from each other at about eye level. Corridors ran forwards, backwards, and sideways, creating a maze of white walls and windows that simultaneously confused and intrigued the mind. Diane could not remember how she arrived here in this extensive maze, but her arrival was not the most pressing thought on her mind. Instead, she was filled with awe at the sights she witnessed through the windows.

Each window seemed to be looking out to a different place, despite being immediately next to each other. Some windows looked out to lush, verdant landscapes, vast fields of grass that stretched out filled with wildflowers and little cottages, some with farmland and cows or horses milling about, others with deep forests that contained deciduous trees and wooden cabins, or sunny jungles with small huts and campfires. Other windows overlooked scenes of business and bustle: bright cities with neon lights and cars filling the roads, some vantage points from high-rise apartments above breathtaking skylines, and still others gazing into small European-looking cafes and restaurants filled with a mix of smiling and grumpy patrons. There were small towns, sleepy and stagnant, with one stoplight in the middle of town and a single bar that was the center of society in their little windows. Larger windows held grander views: stages filled with lights and microphones, movie cameras and red carpets, mansions, yachts, and crowds of paparazzi. The camera lights flashing through the panes of glass dazzled Diane, almost blinding her with their brightness.

Stern metal windows revealed desks of paperwork, law making chambers, and a familiar oval room. Diane investigated rooms barely known to most people, filled with military maps, or vast sums of money described on heavy pieces of paper. The windows grew thicker, changing from picturesque panes of glass or little cabin windows to reinforced bars and thick, impenetrable glass. Dragging a hand across the bottom of one, she gazed within. A middle-aged woman sat at an old oak desk, a large computer in front of her. A young man in a military uniform stood at attention in front of her, talking curtly. The man’s words were muted by the barrier created by the window’s thick glass, but the woman’s head was in her hands, her elbows on the desk. It clearly was not good news. As the woman raised her head, Diane took a sharp breath in. She couldn’t have been older than 40, but her face was prematurely wrinkled and saddened. Those lines told a story of strength and courage, clear blue eyes still piercing, suggesting decisiveness that had been required throughout her life. Nations could have risen and fallen at her command, thought Diane. There was a quiet strength in this woman, and Diane felt a thrill of the power vested in the room she gazed into, as the woman spoke a few words to the young man, and he turned and left, leaving her alone. Diane turned as well, feeling uncomfortable watching this personal moment of solitude that this imposing woman must be left to experience alone.

Diane jumped slightly as she looked behind her. She was not alone, here in the endless white corridors. A tall young man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind her, reading a paper on a clipboard. Diane had not heard him walk up behind her, nor with the quiet had she even considered that there could be others in this strange place. Yet somehow, she was not afraid, merely perturbed at herself for not thinking of the many dangers a strange new location could present, instead allowing herself to be overwhelmed by the great mystery of the windows. Before Diane had a chance to speak, the young man tucked the clipboard under his left arm and did a short bow. He had short curly brown hair and a sharp jawline. In her early teen years, Diane would have called him ‘cute’, but to her now in her late twenties, he was not unattractive, yet there was something about him that prevented her from seeing anything but a purely aesthetic beauty in him. He straightened up, appearing even taller, and gave her a small businesslike smile.

“President Smith is quite impressive, but her life is a taxing one. Too many moral quandaries, I wouldn’t recommend it.” He tapped his right-hand index finger on his chin, tilting his face up. “But then again,” his voice took on a questioning tone, nearly as if talking only to himself, “that kind of power and responsibility is quite a transforming experience.” He looked straight into Diane’s eyes. “You might take well to leadership.”

Diane blinked and took a step back. His deep brown eyes were the color of caramel, with honey yellow swirled in, and she was afraid if she maintained eye contact too long, she wouldn’t be able to look away.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “I’m really not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Oh Diane, you know what I’m talking about.” He pulled the clipboard out again and flipped through a few papers. Nodding, he placed it back under his arm and began to walk away. “Just choose a window!”

“Wait!” She cried out, nearly in a panic, without knowing why she felt so terrified that he was leaving. He walked faster than she expected, and although she began to walk after him, he had completely vanished.

Diane had followed him down into a thinner, softer lit corridor. The whole area had previously had a sterile white-blue tone, almost as if continually bathed in fluorescent light. This hallway glowed with a yellow tone, and the windows were made of wood, some with clear straight lines and panes of glass, while others were nearly boarded up, with small slits and chunks in the wood panes to look through. The simple wooden windows showed small scenes: a dingy kitchen with an old broken clock on the wall, an expanse of brown and grayish country road with nothing but cornfields gently swaying, an old man sitting at a table in the window seat of an empty bar doing a sudoku as the neon “free beer tomorrow” sign sadly flickered, the ‘f’ of free turning on and off. There was a distinct sense of melancholy here, places and people that were not destitute, but were consumed with a gaping emptiness of unfulfilled potential and inescapable dissatisfaction.

Continuing down the hallway, Diane put her face to one of the holes in the windows made of wooden slats. It held a tiny, dark room, where sunlight reached through holes to a dirt floor, and three tiny children were slumped in a corner, covered by a blanket, apparently sleeping. A woman stood over a small wooden table, hunched over pieces of fabric, her skirt worn and her hair in disarray. Just like President Smith, this woman had aged prematurely, but unlike the politician’s wrinkles which were formed through years of the weight of the world, this woman’s aging had come from suffering, pain, and fear. Diane felt a pang of sorrow, and the small, cramped scene nearly brought tears to her eyes. What had happened to this family to bring such suffering, she thought. The image flashed with light, and half of the room was torn away in an instant, without warning. Sunlight crashed through the scene, and Diane saw the children’s mouths open in silent screams. The woman was gone. Diane closed her eyes and stepped back, unwilling to see more, her breath catching in her throat.

Sliding down the wall, she sat on the ground and put her face in her hands. Despite her struggles to breathe with control, shaky sobs came from her throat. Her eyes closed and all she could see was the children, frozen in time, lives that would have no second chance. Tears came quickly, dripping down her face and soaking the knees of her jeans as she pushed her forehead onto her knees.

It seemed as though Diane sat there for an eternity crying, and perhaps she did. Slowly, the tears stopped, and her breathing eventually returned to normal. Diane knew that something had to be done, and that she was the one who had to do it. She rose, walking back the way she came, until she stopped in front of the metal cased window. Within sat President Smith, writing on a pad of paper at her desk. As she took a deep breath, she pulled at the clasp on the side of the window. It was tight and would not open. Looking at her fingers, a red line began to appear from tightly grasping the heavy metal edge. Thinking again of the hall of wooden windows, she gripped the clasp again, and pulled harder. With a loud creak, the window came free and swung open.

From out of the open window came the gentle sound of President Smith’s pen scratching, and the scent of lilacs, most likely coming from the diffuser sitting on an end table across the room. Diane wondered what the small wooden window’s room would have smelled like. Would she have heard what was about to happen? She closed her eyes as tears began to form again and she clenched the top of the window frame. Pulling her legs up to the lower frame, she dropped into the window, and everything went dark. She had chosen her next life.