The doors of choice

Meticulously carved, vibrant in their coloring, the Rosewood doors loomed in front of him, forbidding in their beauty. The years seemed to radiate off of each door, as if a single sliver, delicately untwined from the souls of those who had come before, took up residence in their dark wood. Whispers of lives fully lived; the warmth of their laughter rustled at the edge of his awareness. Echos of long-forgotten silent sobs vibrated deep within his chest; brief lives that comprehended nothing but despair.  

Anticipation, liquid adrenaline coursed through his entire being; a feeling that far surpassed anything a simple construct of flesh and bone could experience. A single step. Another. And another. Until both too soon and far too slow, he stood centered between the doors.  

What had looked from far away to be a pattern comprised of arbitrary lines, carved into the dark rose-colored wood, was in actual fact a single word on each door. Despite being inexplicably drawn to the door on the right, he begrudgingly forced himself to move in front of the left one. For he knew he would not be able to pull himself away from the right door, once there.  

His eyes traced the smooth deep lines, carved lovingly by a skilled hand, and read the sole word that stood out gracefully on the door; “Need.” Working from left to right, his fingers dragged through the thick grooves. As they moved, the dense calluses covering the tips of his fingers contrasted drastically with the texture of the polished wood.  

Cold. Not the absence of heat, but something else entirely. Plunging headlong into a freezing stream on a sweltering summer's day. A feeling of freshness, of newness. But a debilitating fear lurked at the edge of his consciousness. The knowledge that the initial impact of flesh and water would be jarringly unpleasant. And the sweat and grime coating this skin, by which he defined himself, behind which he hid, his memories of her, would wash away.  

As the wood began to cool, expanding out from where his fingers touched, panic consumed him. Like trying to hold onto a handful of sand as the ocean tugs at it, he felt his pain start to slip away. Without his pain, without the vivid memories of her, he was nothing. If he let go of it, she would start to fade, and that he could not bear.  

He violently clutched his hand to his chest. A python swiftly coiled itself around his lungs, rapidly tightening. Short, shallow gasps of air were all he could muster. Stumbling backwards and to the right, he sunk to his knees facing the other door, where, one by one, labored breaths were being squeezed out of his chest.  

From where he knelt, he experienced a soft glow of warmth emanating from the second door. It enticed him. As it alleviated his tension and panic, he summoned the strength to raise his head and read the word that stood out in the center of the right door; “Want.” 

Quiet promises that he would never have to let her go. That for the rest of his life he could relive the days of his youth, the days of his love. Before the pain. Before the loss. Before he lost himself in her absence. Oh, how he craved to go back to those days, once taken for granted. And if not the good days, then the days when he could still look back on those, without it feeling like someone was mindlessly shoving a jagged metal object through his chest. 

Tendrils of a hazy white light began to drift off of his skin, and float towards the door. He could physically feel himself getting lighter, the burden of his life lifting off his shoulders. His soul was gently being tugged, pulled by the door's allure. The concentration of other people’s emotions was far greater here than by the other door. Those who had come before had chosen to rather live in the past, than risk experiencing fresh pain.  

He envied them; a dark pool of bitterness rising in his throat. The temptation of allowing himself the luxury of making that choice was staggering in its intensity. Devastating chaos ran rampant in his mind. The web of lies he had told himself to survive was unraveling all at once as if slashed through the center by a knife. Threads of sanity lay discarded on the floor, as the war raged on. Each side brutally hacking at the lies, exposing the truth to prove a point. 

He knew that entering the door in front of him was the equivalent of dying. Trapped in the past, always reliving old memories rosied by time, never able to make new ones. But he was so tired of trying. Trying to force himself to get up each morning. Trying to move on. Trying to find a way to keep living. Craving nothingness each day.  

The part of him that still had a little fight screamed and raged, terrified of what he would do. But as he pushed off his knees with his hands and stood, that voiced was choked off. With that, silence, the decision was made.  

Peace came over him. He had all the time in the world to take those few steps. Finally, it was over. All the pain of trying to move on, ran like blood from his skin, filling rivulets in the stone floor. The dark liquid ran between the tiles leading towards the door, creating a path for him to follow. And with each step, is if repelled by his foot, it splashed over the stone in front of him, racing forwards. The pain flowed under it, disappearing without a sound, as he came to a stop directly in front of the ornately carved rosewood door. 

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the sweet smell of the wood. And it was as if that lung full of air reversed the effects of gravity, because his feet lifted slightly off the ground. Without so much as a glance towards the other door, he placed both palms on the wood – and pushed lightly.