Nightmare

There is a door in the house. Like any other door, it must lead somewhere but the girl who lived there had never opened it. She did not know what was on the other side of the nondescript white wood. All she knew was that it was a dark place. The light shining before it was not one of beauty. It was a hard light, almost too painful for the eye to look upon. The girl’s eyes slid off the door every time she wandered into the kitchen looking for a snack, or something to drink. The rest of the kitchen was simple. Pleasant tones, even colours. Nothing jarring anywhere. Rather the kitchen had an aura of homeliness that would not be out of place in your grandmother's house. The bench tops were a pale marble, the picture windows outlined in lemon curtains with the mouldings painted to match.

The warmth and light of the kitchen streamed throughout the rest of the girl's house. From the kitchen, the home led through to a simple lounge and dining room, open to each other although separated by large planters of white and yellow Calla Lilies. The girl often would sit by the flowers, reclining on the white sofa. If she sat just so she could see the sunlight streaming through the window and the foliage, creating a soft yellow/green glow. For hours when she was feeling tired, she would rest there, bathing in the light, drifting.

From the lounge there was a patterned tile of muted marble, leading to the entry foyer and the stairs. There were only a few stairs leading up to the bedrooms. There were only two rooms up those stairs. The room she shared with her love and the room they shared for a range of purposes. Like the kitchen and the rest of the house, the bedroom was dressed in the soft warmth of yellows and whites and creams. In this room, she was free to rest. To love. To dream. The bedding and pillows were plush, as was the carpet. When she first slept of an evening the girl always felt as though she were floating in the clouds. Even the reflected light from her vanity was muted, as though seen through gossamer white silk. The illusion was compounded by the sunlight streaming through broad bay windows softened by white lace curtains. The curtains swayed gently no matter the weather. The room seemed purposefully designed to make one drowsy, to encourage one into a deep sleep.

The second room was different. This room became whatever it needed to be. Mostly the girl avoided this room. All she ever really needed in there was her lover's attention when he was caught up in his work. There were times when the girl would make some use of the sparse exercise equipment her husband kept, often after much prodding on his part to join him. Usually, though she would fall asleep to the sounds of loud exhales; his accelerated breath and an occasional grunt when he was exercising himself late into the night. Otherwise, the worn desk and cluttered wardrobe were of little concern to a girl whose life was suffused with the softness and warmth of her preferred rooms.

When the season was right, her husband would bring her flowers after long days at the office, or when he was feeling particularly sentimental. The girl would venture into that second room then. Into the clutter that stored her meagre craft supplies to fashion these flowers, always white, into garlands to adorn the staircase. Drifting downstairs then, trailing fingers lightly across the tips of the petals, gently, softly, causing the scent of the flowers to mingle with the ever-present warmth in the air.

Everywhere in this house was warmth, light and love. Except for that door...