I am new to the writing game, or at least to actually showing people what I have written. I am largely inspired by the rugged natural beauty of my homeland Aotearoa New Zealand, and what might be lurking in the wilds...
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THE SILVER DOOR
by
Joey Bonnett
April 06
I am alone, now, in a rural part of the Mossburn Valley. Fields. Farms. Solitude. Stacey used to say I was never there, I was always somewhere else. We would sit across from each other, the cheap laminate table an ocean. Bowls of bland food as islands. I was never there? I was right where I should be, the only place I could be. We decide the reality of the space in front of us, label it as truth. I was never there? She was never here.
When you are alone you are free. I am free to do what I want, to think what I want. To say what I want. But I only think thoughts I don’t care for and I have no one to say anything to.
When the house is void of life you find corners. It’s too big. Four bedrooms-two bathrooms. One person. We had ambitions to fill it. But effort is not enough, you need the universe to comply, and you cannot will biology into compliance.
In the corner of the bedroom I sit in a chair. On the top floor. I call it a bedroom, but no one sleeps here; there is no bed. The window looks to the valley. Fields. Farms. A shed with a silver door. And tonight…lights. So bright, they engulf the house and open the sky. In the bedroom, they dance like the embers of blue hot wood on a clear summer night, a bonfire.
April 08
Having a guest has been wonderful. They say the key to good communication is clarity and conciseness. The dweller understands this, when they need more they just ask, and I oblige. There is always something sharp around; almost anything can be a knife if you press hard enough. There are still some glass shards in the window frames anyway. My cuts were so good this morning, so clean, so long. High yield. I hope it is proud of me. It seems happy with my work.
April 10
It cannot have my heart, my heart is gone. Stacey took it. I am sure my guest doesn't need it anyway. But my skin...my skin is fair game. It takes it in strips and I carve them carefully.
April 11
It’s mad at me. I can feel it. I will go to it and make things right.
In my yard - as I approach the silver door, a breeze kisses my face. Like a lover's breath. No, it is cooler and less kind. Like a predator familiarizing itself with its prey.
The night is not silent. The noise is beautiful and accepts my attention. Wind through cracks and across metal. Aeolian tones. Wind; woodwind. Parts of an orchestra. The percussive strikes of metal on metal contribute rhythms that circle and repeat. A simple shed with a silver door can be so magnificent. It certainly seems to please my guest. There is something else too. A ringing in my head. Severe. I am receiving instruction and I was right…it is mad at me.
I fixate on the silver door rather than address its contemptuous gaze. The thing that now stands to the right of the structure. How tall is it? Taller than the door. It is not silver. It is somehow both cloaked in obsidian murk and accented by colors that I didn't before know existed. A permanent walking shadow, but its colors, its lights, they dance and communicate among themselves, and to me. Synaptic firings that light up the uninvited.
I had someone (something) again and it was beautiful, but I feel it turning sour.
The colors invite me to do things and I accept. I examine the blade in my right hand that is slowly removing the remaining skin from my limbs. I started with the legs when we first met and worked my way up. There is little left now. It should hurt, but when the going gets tough it takes me through the silver door and makes everything better. It has techniques. I can keep going for now.
I settle into my position on the path and get to work. Scoria dressed deeply in red.
The forehead comes off clean...perfect biological fabric. And while it is tough going around the orbital structure I am pleasantly surprised at how the mandible provides a solid base to apply pressure for smooth peeling. I am overconfident, I rush and the knife catches in the septal cartilage. The edges are now rough. It hates that.
Its love is waning, its colors are muted. Obstructed, and dulled by the skin and tissue that is now fused to its gangly, ectomorphic-like parts. But…it's bigger than me, and the lights still shine in the exposed gaps - it needs more! I scan my body for sweet, rich traces of casing. That's what it calls it. A loose flap, anything. I spot some on the ground…I just need to brush the debris off, it is sticky and the path is dusty and loose.
My feet! How could I be so foolish, I haven't even started on the soles. The blade is sharp and enters cleanly under the edges. I need to concentrate, the angle is difficult and precision is important.
Done.
I can't help but notice that its face is still completely uncovered. Where did it put mine? So dark, so matte, and yet the bright blue pulses in its face tell me something.
Oh....I see.
It no longer needs me either. It says I won’t feel a thing if I am quick enough, as long as I can get the blade through my throat fast and powerfully it won’t hurt. I will do the best job it has ever seen. I hope it is proud of me.
A silver door stands at the end of the path laid in sodden scoria. A persistent drizzle drowns each little pyroclastic piece again and again in weakening crimson. Fields. Farms. Solitude again.