It shook the walls, but that was all. Hours later the door opened anyway, as if to mock Philip's efforts. Suddenly his stomach is in knots, with every step he takes down the last part of the way. That door held his answers once, even if their horrors were a far cry from the questions he asked. Maybe it will answer him again. Maybe opening the door a second time will tell him how to undo everything he did wrong by opening it the first time. That lesson would be the icing on the cake, wouldn't it?
He presses his palm against the cold metal and looks up at the light.
The light.
Which is on.
And the door.
Which would open, if he just tried.
And just like that the sickening feeling in his stomach is back with a vengeance, and he fumbles hastily for the radio device. Because it's not about the question. And it's not about the answer. It's about the price you pay for asking.
"If anybody can hear this, whatever you do, don't open that door! I repeat: Don't open that door! No matter what, please don't open the door!"
How many variations of it he repeats Philip can't actually say.
All he knows is that, once he stops, the silence is deafening. And everybody is gone. He already knew that from the moment the passages closed, but it took until now for the thought to truly sink in. By then his throat feels raw. He repeats the message one last time.
To his left the door that is meant to be there is gone. His room is gone, existing only in a place that isn't this one. But to his right the corridor remains, and slowly his steps carry him down until the very end.
The room is lit red, just like he remembers.
The first time and the times after, every single nightmare vision of that metal box, every illusion of burning hot wires a reminder of the pain that dug into his being from that moment, until the very last step of the full circle, when the flames finally surrounded himself. Was it all worth it, in the end?
Philip takes that last step forward. Metal under his palm again. The incinerator is cold and silent.
He falls against the machine and lets out the first of many sobs.
DAY 5
He presses his palm against the cold metal and looks up at the light.
The light.
Which is on.
And the door.
Which would open, if he just tried.
And just like that the sickening feeling in his stomach is back with a vengeance, and he fumbles hastily for the radio device. Because it's not about the question. And it's not about the answer. It's about the price you pay for asking.
"If anybody can hear this, whatever you do, don't open that door! I repeat: Don't open that door! No matter what, please don't open the door!"
How many variations of it he repeats Philip can't actually say.
All he knows is that, once he stops, the silence is deafening. And everybody is gone. He already knew that from the moment the passages closed, but it took until now for the thought to truly sink in. By then his throat feels raw. He repeats the message one last time.
To his left the door that is meant to be there is gone. His room is gone, existing only in a place that isn't this one. But to his right the corridor remains, and slowly his steps carry him down until the very end.
The room is lit red, just like he remembers.
The first time and the times after, every single nightmare vision of that metal box, every illusion of burning hot wires a reminder of the pain that dug into his being from that moment, until the very last step of the full circle, when the flames finally surrounded himself. Was it all worth it, in the end?
Philip takes that last step forward. Metal under his palm again. The incinerator is cold and silent.
He falls against the machine and lets out the first of many sobs.