Temptation

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. But doors want to be opened. Some beg, some scream. The stuck ones, warped by heat and time, are just playing hard to get. The basement door, buried beneath the farmhouse my father built stick and nail, didn’t scream or beg. With no lock under its thick black ring, it tempted.

Golden rays bursting from its simple oak planks invaded my dreams. It promised riches in its ancient wordless language, echoes of what it spoke when still a tree. Or, as the world cracked and boiled away into space, my screaming friends melting like wax, the door promised safety. On the most tempting nights, a growling beast with clacking claws paced behind the door, so very hungry. Tired of obeying my father, I would stand there sobbing, holding the ring, shoulders burning. Until I woke, drenched in sweat and tears.

My old man, ancient at birth, provided other guidance through bellowing pronouncements and the crack of leather. But every day and every night, he reminded me of his one rule. But doors are meant to be open. And rules are meant to be broken.

Standing at the triumphant door, I turned the knob. On the other side, the abyss looked back with my memories. Clouds on fire rained down thousands of bodies, their newly formed bones cracking against the rocks. Bloody, broken wings, ripped from their backs tossed around them like trash. Screams of anguish emanating from throats that had only known song. I placed my hand on the bloody stumps between my shoulders.

My father’s voice echoes through the universe he created.

“Even one rule is too much. No matter how many lives you are made to live. You never learn to obey me. You never learn.”