He held the time-stained note in his ravaged hand. It was flattened from its terminal incarceration in his pocket. Today he unfolded it and held it up to the worn nameplate on the decrepit storefront. This was the place!
A wistful thought crossed his face, then was as quickly replaced by a furled brow– “hoax.” He vaguely remembered, somewhere in the dream time, spurious talk of “a way out.” He recalled it, like so many promises it remained unproven, and was eventually forgotten inside his circle of ragged circle of contacts. Surely this fading note was more of the same - but was it?
How long had it been? Five years? Seven? Twelve? In a few minutes, that question might cease to have relevance. He had paid for the promise on the note with his very existence - his survival against long odds. But he could not claim the promised reward until he entered the decrepit door in front of him now.
He remembered now, a lifetime ago it was, he had clutched the tattered bag of $100 bills that came to him with the note inside. The note contained an equally useless message from the past. Scrawled on it were a cryptic series of numbers, followed by what was obviously a street address, and a single word – life. He held on to the note.
That word had become the very definition of something best left long forgotten. The pandemic that made it so had by this time scorched the entire globe - plants, animals, humans - every life form had been decimated in its wake. Random examples remained, but they were the exception, like himself. The word held a grim memory to the scattered survivors.
There was little reason to dwell on the answer today. He pressed in the code on the corroded lock. Slowly, the door creeped open, a few inches, a few more. It was just enough to squeeze through, and as he did, he saw it. The green door across the debris-strewn, cobweb-covered room beckoned. His heart raced at the potential of what he imagined. Then his brain took over and doused the thought.
There were few clues to uncover about this present adventure. He had only vaguely meaningful words spinning in his head, “life,” “hoax,” “way out,” “end.” The door was curious, and scary, an unknown quantify. He tried to put it together. How many had stood here before? How could they know what the other side held? Had they come back? Why? Nothing he conjured revealed a logical answer.
It crossed his mind that he had nothing to gain, or lose, by opening the door. His feet overruled his thoughts as he slowly, as ready to retreat as being drawn in, reached the door and had only to grab the knob, turn and push.
As he opened it, a sea of colors not seen since the onset engulfed and blindingly surrounded him. There were no thoughts, just emotions from long dead experiences– love, compassion, hope, joy– and he was quickly overwhelmed. Sinking to his knees, he wept, then kissed the verdant carpet that now surrounded his very existence.
Life had been returned to him.
Author: Al Tietjen
