Red is a Bright Colour

Hazy. Head hurts. I do not know this room. Grey. Plain. Simple. Cold to the touch. It is small, walls too bare, uninviting, loveless. Like a prison. Only two doors loom over me. They make my head hurt more.

I get up. Slowly. I have made it as far as sitting. It was a struggle. Any attempt to get past this point is making me want to heave. I am cold, not dressed for this brisk temperature. The holes in my jeans and my short sleeves are overexposing my skin. I stand up, gingerly, using one of the sad walls for stability. I only just make it. The walls are too textured. Like concrete. The ceiling and floor are the same. My bare feet flex, attempting to get away from it. Where are my shoes?

I don’t have time for this. Need to make progress. If there is any to be made. The doors are waiting patiently. One white but distressed, aged wood peaking through, gold handle tarnished with wear. One much darker, like mahogany, but in better condition, the silver knob matching the cool tones. I am trying to think of a statement, something about why people would pick something light over something dark. I don’t have the mental capacity.

I have always wanted to be more daring. I remember that much. Even though this is probably not the time to honour that wish. Whatever is making my brain feel like a ball of wet wool is making me think that this is a good idea. My hand is going towards the handle, and it presses into my skin as I turn it. I am careful, I do not want it to be tarnished, used like the other. I want this to be the path less travelled. It is opening, beyond its better judgement, creaking in protest as I push against it. It gives in. I am welcomed into the room ahead of me. It is disappointingly similar to the first.

I am wondering if I should have gone through the other door. I hear the door start to creak again, and close behind me. A mechanism is clunking, a metallic signal to tell me not to bother. I am facing the room again, trying to only focus on each problem one at a time.

Again, the concrete walls are eliciting a reaction from me that I do not want but cannot control. It is slightly different in here. About the same size, but only one door, if I don’t include the useless one I just came through. A warm oak table, alien in this room, next to the locked door, holds a candle, unlit. I sigh. Why is everything always a puzzle? The door is red this time, too bright, hurting my eyes. I do not like it. It is too aggressive.

I turn away towards the table, attempting to focus on what this could mean. What is needed of me. The candle has not been lit, wick standing to attention, wax firmly planted in a holder. It looked to expensive for my hands. They are covered in grit still from being on the floor, embedded in my skin. There are pock marks where some has fell out. Like I have a rash. Focus. There is nothing around the candle. On the table, on the floor. The table is a lot nicer to sweep my hands over than the floor, just to make sure I haven’t missed something. The floor only adds more grit.

I can feel my brow involuntarily furrowing. There isn’t many places for something of use to hide. But apparently it is doing a pretty good job. I pick the candle up, feeling like a peasant lighting the way for their bureaucrat master, the intricate detail distracting me. Leaves, petals, insects bumbling around them playfully. Some flowers barely in bud, yet some well into the height of summer, searching for the sun. They only have a harsh, fluorescent spotlight that is hurting my eyes. The holder harbours nothing, not attached to the bottom, not encased within a metal stem or leaf. I am hesitating to do anything to the candle, for fear that I might need it. I decide it is a last resort. If I need it, I can not afford for it to be destroyed, sunken mush encased in gold.

I am reluctant to turn my attention to that door. Turning slowly, squinting my eyes, the red burns a hole in my retinas. My brain isn’t ready for this colour. I am walking over anyway, peering into the lava, into the fire. In places, it retreats into a broken ash wear. I focus on them as I search. The person who hid something must have ruined their beloved crimson paint job for a reason, and the chips are decoys, another piece to this bizarre puzzle. I search the top half, and upon finding nothing, try the yet again golden, but much less tarnished handle. It doesn’t budge. Figures.

The bottom half is the next mountain I have to conquer. Head is pulsing now, my heart stuck within it. I do not know how it ended up there. I hold it with my hand, enough to cover one eye as I search, trying to loosen the pain. I look at the black hollows, the only logical place. And sure enough, in the bottom left, embedded deeply into a pit of ash, is a match. And I dig it out with my fingernails, holding it close in victory, and I remember how matches work.

I sigh again. And I look around the room. Again. This was getting old. Fast. I start rubbing it up random surfaces. I thought that the smooth oak of the table is an unlikely success, and it behaves as such. The concrete isn’t much better. And then I turn towards the door. The pain is unbearable. I run the match against a rough, chipped groove within the wood, holding my hand against my eyes, and it sparks. A flame. Yellow as the sun, holds itself against the phosphorous.

And I take it to the candle. That hand, no longer allowed to protect me, is protecting the flame from possible threats. The candle wick is taking quickly, ready for this opportunity to provide. I again and guiding it back over from the table to the door. But then, I am realising, I do not know what to do with it.

After searching that bloody door for what felt like hours, I see the problem. It is a thin cord, from the handle to beyond where I could see, past where the lock presumedly hid. I took my candle, half burnt, sagging to one side with sorrow, and placed it under the cord. It burned, ash sprinkling silently onto the pale candle wax. And I hear a clunk. I try the handle again. Hot to the touch, and it unlocks.

The door opens, creaking as much as the first. Light fills my view. It is too bright. It is all I can see. And I wonder what will happen next.