home

She closed the door behind her, listening for the soft click of the latch. She leaned against the door, eyes closed, enjoying the relative quiet.   She opened her eyes.

Home.

This was home.  Everything here was hers.  She would never share any of this.  It was all hers.  Behind her, on the other side of the latched door, was reality. That, she shared. Happily.
But this was hers.

To her right, the room opened to a cheery little sitting room.  There was a cozy little hearth, fire cracking and a pot of water heating over the flames.  An overstuffed and much patched chair was next to the hearth.  That’s where she could curl up in, tuck her feet under her and enjoy her solitude.  Across from the curl-up chair the work table stood, scarred and stained.  Her work table was big enough for her to spread out when she worked on her things.  A simple wooden chair was haphazardly set near the table. Everything in that room was well loved, homey, warm and quirky.  Nothing matched, nothing clashed.

Directly opposite the front door was the corridor. Two smallish, gleaming, polished cherry tables stood at the entry. The corridor was a wide hallway lined with grey industrial shelving units.  The edge of the first set of shelves lined up perfectly with the doorway, the tables were technically not in the corridor, but they belonged to the corridor.  The edges of the tables lined up exactly with the edge of the shelving units.  There was a measured gap between the table and wall which was exactly the same as the gap between the table and the shelving.  The left side matched the right, precisely.

Stacked haphazardly under each table were the boxes and their lids.  The boxes were made of a thin wood, the exact shade of the tables, but with a matte finish.  They were lightweight but strong.  They had been designed like cardboard filing boxes. Same size, shape, everything.  They all matched. Identical.

To her left was dull white wall that had a door at the exact center.  The door was slightly open.  Barely open, the casual observer would’ve thought it was closed.

For the last several months, the only time she’d been home had been to quickly cross the room to one of the cherry tables, dump her unfinished things into a waiting box, shut the lid and set it in the first empty slot on one of the shelves.

Today she carried nothing.  She walked slowly towards the corridor. She smiled. So many things.  All hers.  The shelves were all identical; the boxes, identical.  The spacing between the boxes was precisely the same as every other space on the shelves.  She spread her arms out, fingertips barely touching the row of boxes on either side.  Slowly she walked down the hall, feeling the smooth, polished wood under her fingers.  Each box was precisely placed, the same distance apart, parallel to the box set just so along the opposite shelf.  All this order and symmetry was so peaceful.  The silence was blissful.  The only noise was the soft patter of her bare feet on the cold concrete floor. She relaxed, simply enjoying trailing her fingers in peace. Every so often there would be a box out of place, just enough to not be perfect.  She acknowledged those imperfections. Those boxes contained her unfinished things.  When they were done, they’d get lined up perfectly.

The only light came from the sitting room. As she walked further down the corridor the hall got darker and her fingers found less and less boxes out of place.  Her steps slowed and she turned.  She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of old cedar, forgotten flowers and cherished books.

Hugging herself, she walked back towards the light. She stopped in front of a set of boxes near the entrance; nearly all of these were unfinished.   She carefully selected one, pulled it down and carried it back to her work table, bare feet warming  on the hardwood floor of the sitting room.  She set the box gently on the table and with a deep breath lifted the lid.

What seemed like hours later she quietly slid the lid back into place. Exhausted, but happy.  Done. This box was done. She walked the box back to its proper place in the corridor, setting it just so, perfectly aligned with all the other straight lines, the space between the edge of the shelf and the edge of the box just precisely perfect.  Her eyes caught on all the boxes askew around this one finished box. Her smile faded and she began to despair at the number of unfinished things.
Spinning on her heels, she forced herself to look down the corridor, down the endless rows of perfectly placed boxes fading into the darkness.  Nodding sharply she turned back around, refusing to look anywhere but forward.  She’d finished all those.  She’d finish these too.  Just, not today.

Crossing to the hearth, she poured the boiling water into the waiting mug and curled up in her chair. Holding the steaming tea to her lips she drank in the scent of lemons, chamomile and spring rain.  The tea was too hot to drink, so she wrapped her hands around the mug, enjoying the warm peace.  The sitting room was not silent.  Not like the corridor.  The steaming water hissed, the fire crackled, somewhere a cricket chirped, and the water dripped occasionally.  Nothing was symmetrical here.  Happy angles and quirky colors dominated the space. Askew was normal. It made her happy. It too was peaceful.

She looked at the white wall across the room, its precisely placed door and the murmurs of sound behind it.  She was damn proud of that door.  Hell, she was damn proud of the room behind it too.  She had built both.  Looking at the door she was overwhelmed with sadness and acceptance. Old feelings, she knew, but still they tugged at her heart.

The door was a work of art, and she had created it.  Before it had been a door and a room it had been a hall, twin to the first, but lacking shelves and boxes.  This hall had been a crazy mess of everything that spilled out into the sitting room and into the proper corridor.  She’d cleared out all the chaos, carefully packing each scent, color, and taste into their own perfectly symmetrical wooden box on her perfectly parallel shelves.  Adjusting them, just so, perfectly in line.

The hall was not empty though.  Sounds cannot be contained in her perfect wooden boxes. She knew. She had tried.

Oh how she’d tried.

The attempt had threatened to destroy everything; the chaos had swirled into the corridor, into the sitting room, everywhere.  She had had no home, no safe place.  She had to live with these sounds, unless she wanted the rest of her world to be destroyed. So, she built the room and the door.

She turned the long narrow hall into a room.  A room with no corners, a true circle, symmetrically perfect.   If she had trailed her fingers along those walls, she would have felt the thick texture of muslin that has been painted over and over.  She had covered the muslin with layers upon layers of paint, trying color after color, until she realized the flat black paint that reflects no light was right.  No footsteps could be heard when she walked into that room. The concrete floor had been covered with painted muslin too.

When the room hadn’t been enough to contain the sounds, she’d created the door.  She was still amazed that she had made that. The edges of the door were capped in hammered silver.  There was no latch, nothing to keep the door closed, just the silver edges reflecting the firelight.  After trying and failing to keep the door closed an uncountable number of times, she’d accepted that the door would never shut, or, more precisely, could not stay shut. So, she’d covered the latch with the silver cap.  It had been so pretty, she’d done all the edges.

That’s was just the beginning.  Inset into the door, randomly scattered like stars, were faceted gemstones of every size, shape, and color.  The smallest was no bigger than the tip of her pinkie finger, the largest almost fist sized.  She’d drilled holes through the door and set the stones with gold and silver scrollwork.  Flowing vines, curls, and curves laced the surface of the door. No lines, no angles, just a beautiful mess of colors and curves.

From the inside of the room, the door was a scattering of flickering rainbow stars. With the door only open a fraction of an inch, the room inside was blacker than a moonless night.
And the sounds stayed there.  They spun along the ceiling, creating a layer of noise above the warm, humid air.  If she stretched her fingers up, she could just brush their iciness.

Dangerous that.
 

Twice since she had deemed the door finished she had done that.  She had slipped into the darkness, arms outstretched, and fingers touching the icy air.  Eyes closed she had slowly spun in circles, letting the sounds spin with her, until she was at the vortex of an overwhelming whirlwind of sound.

She let go and gave into the madness.  She loved the chaos.  It felt more perfect than lines, angles, boxes, or tea.  Both times she had been terrified she wouldn’t be able to find the door again.

Terrified that she would get so caught up in the spinning darkness that she would forget to look for the door.

Terrified that the joy being part of the whirlwind of madness and chaos would be greater than the glittering stars she’d set in the door.

Terrified she would not want to look for the door.

Both times she’d forced herself to open her eyes, look for the stars and spin toward the door. Both times she’d forced herself to want the glittering stars of brightness. Breathless, she had stood in the  center of her home; chaos, symmetry, and cozy comfort flooding her with the whole of who she is.  Never had she felt so complete, so perfect, so exhausted. Those brief moments of completion had cost so much.

Lost in the memory of release and perfection, she brought the mug to her lips, but it was empty.  

Empty.  Yes, those moments had cost so much.

Silently, she set the mug on the hearth, extracted herself from her cozy chair, and walked to the front door.  Hand on the worn glass knob; she turned, eyes taking in the door, the corridor and sitting room.

Sighing, she slipped back into reality, closing the door behind her with a soft click.