a long hall towards a door I’ve never been allowed to use before.
With a skeleton key he keeps tucked in his pant pocket, he unlocks it and steps through, my hand still clutched in his.
I don’t know what I’m expecting behind this magical door, but it’s disappointing nonetheless.
More hallways.
I’m convinced now more than ever that hell is just one long hallway with doors that just lead to more hallways.
We walk side by side through hell together, him with a spring in his undead step, me with a slight limp because my right foot fell asleep during yet another unproductive session.
And then we reach another door.
Oh yay.
“I’ve seen doors before,” I tell him. “And hallways… if that was your surprise.”
He rolls his eyes at me with a cheeky grin. “We’re not at the surprise yet. Be patient.”
Right, because what else do I have but patience and time? Not like I’ve got a hot date tonight.
It happens less and less often, but my mind makes a leap back to my life before this place. Before Estelle died. Before everything went to shit.
A date with a cute guy I met at a bookstore in Paris, that led to more dates sipping lattes in outdoor cafes and eating baguettes and all manner of cheese. It was a passionate summer romance that ended when he returned to Algeria for school. He was studying architecture and still sends me postcards from time to time of his favorite buildings.
Or he did.
I wonder what happened to the postcards?
“Where are my things?” I ask suddenly as we continue walking.
“They’re in your room,” he says, with a worried glance in my direction.
“No, I mean the things I owned before coming here. What happened to my flat? My stuff? Where’s my mail being sent?”
He frowns, pausing in his tour of the world's most exciting hallways. “I explained this to you when you first arrived,” he says. “Don’t you remember?”
“If I remembered, do you think I would be asking?” I can feel the sweetness of who I used to be turning bitter in this place, but I can’t stop it. Like good fruit rotting. That’s me. I’m rotting from the inside and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“All of your belongings that survived the fire were put into storage and a hold was put on your mail. Your school was notified that you’ll be taking a leave of absence for medical reasons.”
I cringe at the reminder of the fire, the one I still have no memory of. I wasn’t told any of this, but it’s no use arguing. So I clench my jaw and keep walking.
Someday I’ll get those postcards back.
When we reach another door, I’m about ready to sit down in silent protest.
But this one does not lead to another hallway.
It leads to stairs.
Going up.
Up!
This is a new direction.
I’ve never gone up before.
So I don’t protest, I keep walking.
Up each stair.
Up and up and up. Until my legs burn with the effort.
Estelle flits in and out of my peripheral vision, her face a mask of unreadable emotions, the dank gray of stone wall shimmering with cobwebs through her transparent form.
Another door.
Another key.
Another rusty hinge grinding its annoyance at being disturbed.
But as this door opens, I feel something I haven’t felt in… well, however long I’ve been here.
A gust of salty air blows over me, sending strands of my hair dancing. Relief and hope and anticipation swirl within me until I’m overwhelmed.
Dr. Livingstone smiles as he guides me through the doorway and into a courtyard enclosed by a stone wall overgrown with ivy. The wall’s disappointing, though not surprising. Neither is our elevation. Even from here, I can see the cliff’s edge just beyond the wall. Somewhere below, I hear waves crash against the shore.
Breathless from the climb, I shiver with deep pleasure as I suck in a breath and enjoy the tang of ocean on my tongue. So, we’re near the coast. Probably still in France given the French name of the asylum. That’s a clue. Not a huge one, given how much coastal land there is in France. Still, that’s more than I knew five minutes ago.
We walk through the courtyard to an edge overlooking a tumultuous ocean crashing at the shores below. The moon is invisible, try as I might to find it, but the stars are bright and fill the sky like tiny, glittering diamonds.
It takes me a minute of looking around to realize the garden we are standing in isn’t actually a garden at all.