Form 57

Two stories, two destinies. Fated to twine.

         
The          Door

57

         It...is not right. No. Right is not the correct concept. Perhaps it is one of the concepts that the Leader seems to have so many of. The ones the rest of us were not taught in the Re-education.
         'Normal.The concept is that of normality,' the thing tells me. I do not know what it is, but that does not matter.Being awake and moving around while I know I am asleep? That is the more urgent thing I have to figure out.
         "What are you?' I ask.
         "I have a name, but you would not understand the concept of it. I have no number, 57, but if you must call me something, you can call me...0.
         'But I suppose you did not ask me who I am. It will take a long time to answer your question, but I do think it will help you understand why I have come for you, so I will explain, if only a fraction of it.
         '57, it is lucky that you do not yet know what it is to be uncomfortable or impatient, because the story is a long one I will abbreviate it best I can.'
         'I do not understand most of what you have just told me,'
         'I know 57, I know. However, I will try to make it so that you will understand this, with the concepts that you know.
         'The people that made and are your kind, they were geniuses. Foolish geniuses. They refused to obey the laws of their world. They tried to make a world without any of the supposed flaws of their realm. It wasn't long until they realized that they couldn't bring any separate ideas to their new realm, but big, grouped ones: concepts. In order to bring joy, which you will not understand, they would also have had to bring sorrow -again, you will not understand it- for they are both part of the concept of emotion. This discovery did nothing to hinder them, however. Even though it meant that they would have to abandon the perks of their world along with its flaws.
         'These people went into a place isolated from the rest of the realm, the place in which I believe your body is, at this moment, though your mind is with me. They took only the most basic concepts with them, like the concept of time and knowledge. Soon they began to forget the concepts of the outside world, like color or feeling.
         'One of them became you, dear 57.
         'I know that you will neither trust, nor understand me, despite my best attempts to make the story as simple as possible. But you must do as I say. Well. No. You are not required to follow my instructions. However, you will most likely enjoy it if you do, at least in the long term.
         'You know about the Door.'
         It is not a question. That is one of the few things I was able to pick out from what the thing was telling me. I answer it nonetheless.
         'Yes'
         'Go out it.'
         'No.'
         'You are the only chance to make this happen.'
         'To make what happen?'
         'You wouldn't understand.' One of the many things it said that I cannot fathom. I do not know what is the difference between this and the others. But he goes on before I have the time to ask a question.
         'I beg you. Just think about it. I'll come again when you're ready to do it. And remember, you can tell no one about me.
         I wake up. I do not understand, just as the thing said. That is not the only thing that happens as it told me, either. I think about it for several days. I even go to the Door to ask the guards what was on the other side. This, it turns out, is a mistake.
         'To the Room, now,' a guard tells me. I go, of course. I meet the Leader outside it, who tells me to come into the Room.
         '57, did you not know that you were not to ask about the Beyond?'
         'I did not, Great Leader.'
         'Then you do not deserve punishment. Why did you ask about the Beyond?'
         'Because I was told to go there, Great Leader.'
         'By whom?'
         'I do not know, Great Leader.'
         The Leader pauses, as if thinking about this. Then the Leader dismisses me with an order to go to the Inquirer's Office at 5:00am a week later.
         I do not think this will be helpful. Those that go to the Inquirer always come out different from before they went in. Nevertheless, I repeat the order in my head so that I will not forget it before I go to sleep.
         'Hi, 57.' The thing is in my mind again.
         'It's you.
         'Wow, thank you for that wonderful greeting!'
         'I do not follow.'
         The thing does something that I have not learned the concept for. I do not think it is important, though. 'No time to explain,' it says. 'You told someone about the meeting. Why?'
         I do not know why the thing would even ask that question. 'The Leader asked,' I tell it.
         The thing does that incomprehensible thing again.
         'But that's not why I'm here. You know that the forms that go to the Inquirer do not return the same.' It pauses. 'Do not go in.'
         'I will, and I will not go Beyond.' I didn't make this decision beforehand, but it is the most reasonable option.
         'No, you won't. You would learn a new concept there. Sensation. You would suffer unbearable amounts of pain.'
         I sense something. It is not helpful. I think it is what the thing said: pain. I am not sure if I should go to the Inquirer anymore. However, an order is an order, and 57 would follow it. Still, it can't hurt -there are so many ways to use that concept!- to ask about something I will never be able to ask about to anyone else.
         'What is Beyond?'
         'Beyond is where... there are more concepts.'
         'Pain is not helpful.' I am not sure what other concepts could be out there.
         'Indeed it is not. But that is not the only sensation, and there are plenty of other concepts.' The thing thinks for a moment. 'Another sensation could be warmth.'
         I feel it. It is the...best thing I have ever experienced. It is so...pleasant that it convinces me to make a decision that will probably change everything I've ever known.
         'I will go out the Door.'
                   Desperate

Katherine

         I'm burning. Burning alive in a fire that I'm sure if I look down will be white hot, but I won't, shouldn't, CAN'T look. I can feel each lick of fire that leaves behind the worst kind of agony in every patch of skin it touches and I'm not even sure how it's possible that I even have any skin left.
         The pain is eating me alive and I'm desperate for anything that will take me out of this fire that I can feel melting my skin straight off the bone and I cannot feel my right forearm and I need to see, to check if it's still there but I'm scared so scared that I will look down to find nothing. I keep my eyes tight closed but I'm not sure it's helping because maybe if I open them there will be a way to get out but if I see nothing where there should be parts of me... I'll never get out of the place of fear I've fallen into.
         Then I hear it. A sound. Water. I've never appreciated it enough and I cannot believe my ears and maybe I really shouldn't because if I believe it and it's not there because it was in my head I don't think I will be able to bear it. The whole world is agony of the fire and the pain of my thoughts and the fear that if I open my eyes I will not be able to see what I should.
         But then another scorching blast of pain blasts through my body and where it is worst I no longer feel anything. I'm so scared so scared so scared and that fear makes me oh so desperate that I open my eyes. I open my eyes to a sight that I still cannot believe.
         Water.
         Water in the form of a hand and it is above me and reaching towards me and I feel more pain but I do not look at my body because it would break me.
         I can't afford to break when I've finally found something that could save me.
         I lift my arm to try and grab that heavenly, heavenly hand...or I try.
         All my arm does is jerk, then I feel it start to go numb. Maybe it is a blessing that I can feel barely any pain anymore.
         But I'm still so desperate and I can't accept that I'll probably die here so I do the only thing I can to get to the hand that is my savior. I thrust my body up with all the strength that I can muster but apparently that is not that much because I can feel only a few parts of my body reacting and my legs give way, submerging me in fire.
         The hand comes closer to the fire, to me, and I try one last time to get to it but my body has stopped reacting, if I even have one anymore. I still haven't looked.
         Then I see it. I see the hand slowly evaporating, getting smaller and smaller and then I can't
see anymore because the flame has reached my eyes at last and I open my mouth to scream my fury and indignation-there is no more pain to scream about, and I don't think the fire is out-but no sound comes out.
         That's when everything becomes dark.

ᚺ ​​ᛞ ᛚ

         I wake up with a start.
         The same dream, every time. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I've been having this dream for almost a whole year now, but I can't seem to get any less scared of it. If anything, I've only been getting more and more terrified of sleeping.
         My body is always numb when I wake up, and even though I know it's probably because of fear or the sudden waking, that knowledge never stops me from trying to scream my throat out. The only thing that ever stops me is the fact that I don't want my parents to hear it and worry about me. I think that even if I could feel every nook and cranny of myself when I wake up, I would still cry out from frustration.
         Everything looks exactly the same as when times were good.
         My white desk, the one that my father bought for me at IKEA when I started needing a space to study, is still spotless except for the barely noticeable scrape of my fork from when I didn't know I wasn't supposed to eat on the desk. The books stacked on top of the desk are the same ones as ever, the ones I seem to have read hundreds of times but still don't bore me: Bronts Wuthering Heights, Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, Shakespeare's Hamlet, and such. My mother always says my style's like an old lady's. The little walk-in closet's double doors, painted by me last year when I was ten, are as vibrant as ever with the red and yellow poppies springing from their edges. I used to be so proud of that work.
         Now all I want to do is scrape it off with my bare hands.
         I know it's unreasonable, but I'm always beyond reason when I wake up from that nightmare. I feel like something should be different. Like my misery should somehow be reflected in my room. I don't want everything to be colorful and clean and happy when all I am is tortured.
         Maybe it's just because I don't want to be any more isolated than I am already.
         I try to remind myself that it's lucky that my room doesn't look dismal, or else my parents would wonder what's wrong, and I can't afford that. If they find out, it won't be pleasant the next time I go to school. Quite the opposite of pleasant.

         -6-