Photo by Efe Kurnaz on Unsplash
The blue corridor leads to an illuminated red-orange door. You thought it would be a glowing white tunnel. That is what everyone said it would be. Those that came back. Maybe that is the waiting room version.
The beeps had stopped. So many beeps. Seemed like days. You remember jumping when every muscle in your body contracted while on the bed. Had you been sick? Or was it an accident? Were you young or old? A short life or a filled one? Were family mourning you or waiting on the other side of the door?
The short walk ends with two steps leading up to the bright door. Clearly a front door of some sort, there is no doorbell, no knocker, not even a thrice damn (should you be using that language here?) camera-speaker to explain why you are here.
You knock.
It’s the polite thing to do.
Were you polite before? Things are slippery.
You knock again.
Third time’s the charm. You knock a little harder.
You try the doorknob.
It rattles as you move it, but only moves so far.
The door is locked.
Is the door to the afterlife supposed to be locked?
How long should you wait for someone to answer?
You bang on it hard, but it makes no more noise than the polite knock.
You wait.
Not long. You do remember you don’t have much patience. It was either because you were too young and everything waited for took forever, or you were too old and you felt the press of time. Maybe you were an important person and always had a place to be. Or was it you were always running late?
You look back along the corridor to where you came from. The corridor that direction ends in a neon yellow-green door.
One last knock, just in case.
No answer, you go back the way you came.
Is this why there are ghosts? Or maybe reincarnation? The green door’s knob turns easily.
(words 330; first published 3/2/2025 – – created based on a visual prompt for a Facebook writer’s group, aim is about 50 words)
