London pt. 2

Walking through the bright, deafening hall, I feel sort of relieved. Finally, I can simply go back to sitting at my post, I can go back to visiting Aesop and Vulpis, I can go back to not thinking about the madness behind these doors. 

Every door I pass, I remember the poor soul trapped behind it. Helen, Salli, Aesop, on and on forever.

Soon enough, I reach the very beginning of the path. The very first door belongs to the boy I know very well, and the boy that I have spent so much time with.

His door looks like all the others, wood bleached white with the grain swirling in confused patterns. The doors want to be wood, but they don’t know how to have color and they don’t know how the inside of a tree is supposed to look. 

There isn’t a handle because there’s no need for one. I simply push on the surface and it swings inward.

I walk forward, plunging into madness.