Tell Me What You See

Fog clouded the edges of my vision as I walked down the hallway in my mind's eye. The sound of my shoes against the imaginary linoleum echoed off the walls that were clad in black wallpaper.

Tell me what you see, whispered a voice through a crackling intercom over my head.

"It's just a hallway," I replied. "The floor is checkered with black and white tiles. The walls are black. There are wooden doors that are numbered."

Go through one of the doors, the disembodied voice said. I walked over to the closest door and pressed my hand against the warm mahogany wood. The golden six hanging in the middle of the door shined back at me. The door swung open easily onto a quiet street. The warmth from the summer sun kissed my face as I walked down the driveway of the nearest house. My heart broke to see my childhood home in its former glory.

"Don't let go!" cried a child's voice.

"I won’t let go," promised the child's mother. In front of the closed garage, at the beginning of the driveway, was a young blond girl on a Barbie themed bike. Her small hands were shaking as she sat there donned in a helmet and protective pads. But it wasn’t the girl I stood there staring at; it was the mother. She was wearing a blue summer dress, her blond hair blowing in the breeze. Even though I was at the opposite end of the driveway, I was engulfed in the scent of her perfume.

Tell me what you see, said the unknown voice again.

"It's me with my mother. I was six. She's teaching me how to ride a bike," I said. My feet carried me further up the driveway, eager to be near this woman I haven't seen in so long.

Get out of there. It's not important.

"It feels important." I closed my eyes and put my hands over my ears to block out the voice. But when I opened my eyes again, the sun was gone. An orange glow shined through the window of the kitchen. The younger version of me stood in the front yard wearing Mickey Mouse pajamas, a vacant expression on her face. "No," I whispered. "Not this day." The orange glow grew and grew until there were flames roaring, smoke billowing, and a woman screaming.

Hot tears streamed down my face. Get out, the voice said again. This time, I didn’t argue as I turned back up the driveway and started running. Sirens sounded in the distance, but I knew that they would be too late to save the woman. And the six-year-old me just stood there, frozen, as she watched her world burn to the ground.

I charged through the wooden door and slammed it shut behind me. Continue, crackled the voice above my head. As I continued down the hall, I realized that I didn’t tell the unknown voice about what happened after my mom taught me how to ride a bike. I decided that they didn’t need to know.

I stopped at another door, this one with a golden twelve on it. Before I could stop myself, I pushed open the door and found myself at the age of twelve. Tell me what you see, the voice said.

"It's a quiet night at my father's house. I'm kneeling next to my bed, my hands folded, and saying a prayer."

Move on, the voice said. It's not important.

I repeated my words from earlier. "It feels important."

This time, the voice was more insistent. It's not. Move on.

Once again, I closed my eyes and held my hands over my ears so I could ignore the voice. When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining through the blinds. The twelve-year-old version of me was standing there looking through the blinds with that same vacant expression on her face that she had six years prior. I looked over her shoulder even though I knew what I would find in the driveway. A police cruiser sat there with the blue lights flashing. A throat clearing startled the young girl and we both turned to the doorway of my childhood bedroom. There stood a police officer with a solemn expression on his face. I rushed back to the door before I could hear the words I knew he was going to say.

With the door shut firmly behind me, I rested my forehead against the warm mahogany and wiped the tears that I didn’t realize were still falling.

The sound of feedback squealing made me look up at the speaker above my head. Continue down the hall, the voice crackled. Are there any doors that stand out from the others? I blinked away my blurred vision and looked down the hallway. Sitting there at the end, was a red door with the number thirty spray-painted black in the center. "There's a red door at the end," I told the voice.

That's the one, they replied. Go through that one.

I rested my hand on the door. Unlike the other doors that were warm and comforting to the touch, this one was cold as ice. Before I could push the door open, it swung open on its own. The door slammed shut on its own too, an audible lock ringing in the air. I found myself on a stone bridge in the middle of the woods. My feet carried me across the bridge. I stopped in the middle and went over to the edge to look over the river. My hands rested on the stone railing and traced the angel wings carved there. I may not remember much about my life, but I know that faith has always played a big part in it. Ever since my mother taught me how to say my nightly prayers.

I was no longer in control of my own body as I turned my head up to look at the bright full moon in the sky, its glow the only thing illuminating the otherwise dark forest. "Lord, forgive me," I whispered into the night, my breath pouring from my lips in a thin cloud. I could feel the chill of the night air deep in my bones. My hand rose to touch my fingertips to my forehead, my chest, and each of my shoulders. I pulled my cross out from the neckline of my shirt to press a kiss to the cold metal.

I was about to cross back over the bridge when I heard the crunch of autumn leaves further up ahead. I squinted trying to see who could be there, but it was too dark. I silently crept forward, trying to get a closer look at the intruder. Peering through the bare trees, I came across a hooded figure. Their back was facing me as they faced a tree. Just as I approached, I heard a thud as something dropped to the forest floor. It was then that I noticed what the hooded person was holding.

A small knife coated in crimson shined in the moonlight. A shiver raced up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. I slowly stepped back, hoping I could get away without being spotted.

Tell me what you see, the voice crackled again overhead. A stick hidden under the leaves snapped under my boot. The dark figure slowly turned toward me, a smile spreading across a familiar face. “Hello, sister,” the man said.

And that’s when everything I had previously forgotten about my life snapped into place. The reason there was a gnawing loneliness, like something more than my father was missing when the police showed up to say he was never coming home.

Tell me what you see, the voice repeated in a more forceful tone. I looked down to the feet of the hooded man to see a woman’s glassy gaze fixed on me, unseeing. She looked familiar with beautiful blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Another memory pieced itself together like a puzzle piece falling into place. My heart shattering at the age of six, not only for the woman that would never tuck me in, but also for the boy that shared my birthday. My other half and best friend. Did his loss really hurt so much that I blocked out his existence?

The world spun around me, until the man was a blur. I could no longer see the body of the woman on the forest floor. And then the forest floor fell away too. And the trees blurred, too, until the world went black.

I slowly opened my eyes, the white tiles nearly blinding me. I was vaguely aware of the comfortable couch I was laying on with a throw pillow resting under my head. “Tell me what you saw,” a voice demanded that echoed in the small room. But I recognized that voice now. It made a shiver tremble its way down my spine.

A tear tracked across the side of my face to stain the throw pillow. Now, I knew the truth. I had spent my life blaming myself for a fire that I didn’t set. I mourned a father that wasn’t taken from me by a random car accident. It was all him.

“I think you know,” I whispered, finally gaining the courage to look at him. He had set aside the notebook he most likely didn’t use for therapy notes. I stared straight into those eyes that looked so much like hers and said in a voice that was stronger than I felt, “You know.” Now, he was twisting a familiar knife in his hands. The last time I had seen it, it was coated with the blood of an innocent woman.

He stood from his chair as I turned my face back to the ceiling, closed my eyes, said a silent prayer to my angels, and waited for the end.