Threshold

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

I can see it, in my mind. Bright, shining, getting stronger and more defined with each passing second. If I hold my breath, the outlines and wood grain and glorious brilliant light spills over the threshold, puddles in a glow you could swim in, gets stronger..

I've seen it before, of course. The time when I was six, and tripped down the stairs and ended up in the closet, swallowed my tongue, was choking? That's the first time I saw it. I was surrounded by people, they knew me, and they seemed familiar, but I knew I didn't know them, they told me it wasn't my time, and sent me back. They told me the rule.

I saw it again, when I got caught in that house fire. I told you, my roommate was crazy. It looked like the way out, all bright and shining, and the fire seemed to drive me towards it. I dove out the window instead.

And when that skeevy van tried to pick me up. The door looked so dark, with a cold light, and I ran so fast! I saw the door's shadow at his trial when I testified.

But now? With each painful breath, with each spasm, it gets sharper and more defined. I'm glad you're here, but any prayer you recite will not stop its increasing clarity. Everything else is fading, and those familiar-but-not presences aren't around.

The room is shadows. The door is right in front of me.

I know the light is leaving my eyes. All the light is on the other side, now.

Goodbye, friend. I must break the rule. I have nothing left.

The light is so pretty...

Oh, there's the doorknob, I didn't see that before...