The Thread

The door itself was odd, a bright purple wood.  It . . . bled.  Red seeped through the purple, and the cobblestones around the door sprouted weeds that clung to my feet, I had to pull them free.  The weeds had thorns, and would poke me, receiving the nurturing blood they needed.  I winced, but did not cry out.  Instinct told me that was a bad idea. There was more purple ebony that sprouted from the wall on either side, blood dripped every once in a while, and the weeds would rise to meet it.  Dripping red cords hung from it as well and I shivered, nauseated. 

The door had a pure gold knocker, and on the it there was an eye.  One pure black eye, the center was not a pupil, but a white cat pupil, the opposite of a human eye.  The knob was golden too, and my hand reached out.  My nails were long, but not painted, and clicked as I turned it, and it opened with a creek.  I felt something behind me and whirled.  A lone ray of sun had escaped from the blanket of grey above, and there stood a man, not like any man I had ever seen.  He was stunningly beautiful, and he shone.  He was tan and muscular, more so than imaginable.  I knew, for his chest was revealed, his white shirt unbuttoned.  He wore dark chocolate shorts, and no shoes.  His face was perfectly chiseled, and his lips, oh his lips.  They were beyond perfection, pink and fair and lovely.  He looked at me.  His eyes were a pure liquid gold, and I was frozen.  Then, the sun was gone, and the man with it.  I let out a low breath I didn’t know I was holding.  Shaking myself, I turned back to the door.  I stepped in, and the door shut behind me with a loud thump.  I spun and went to grab the knob, but there was none.

Shit. I thought, then turned to face the room, back against the door.  My hand came slowly to my mouth as my eyes adjusted to the odd light.  It was filled with plants, vines sprouted from the cream carpet and crawled up the cream walls, and I was standing on a very large flat tree root, coming forth from the floor, and then disappearing again.  Trees sprouted from the carpet as well, and I carefully took my foot from the platform and lowered it to the floor.

“Take off your shoes!” a voice shouted.  A small gasp escaped from my lips, but that was all.  My foot was frozen less than an inch above the carpet.  I took it back and untied my converse, leaving them on the root; I decided that it had been a bad day to not wear socks.  I stepped down, and my toes disappeared, such was the depth of the carpet.  “Come here, around the right corner.” The man said.  He had an odd accent, British, I supposed.  I did as I was bid, trodding on the velvety carpet around the purple trees, looking up in aw, for I could see nothing but the crimson leaves.  Crimson leaves.  I couldn’t believe it.  I rounded the corner, and froze.  This man wore no shirt at all, and he looked a bit younger than the man in the sun, and he wasn’t nearly as perfect or as beautiful.  He had an odd pattern on him, stripes and spots, and splotches, all black, all over his tan skin.  But, that was not the oddest thing.  The oddest thing was what he was doing.  He was lying, belly down, on a large grey rock.  But, it was not this, nor the fact that he was basking in jars of sunlight - yes, rays of sun came forth from the jars secured on the ceiling.  It was not this, nor the fact his feet were up in the sir, kicking gently, and his nails were pointed and sharp like claws.  It was none of this, that made him so curious, it was what he was doing.  He was gently batting, flicking with the claws on his fingers, a ball of turquoise yarn.

“Hello.” He purred.  When he spoke I could see he had fangs, and for a moment I thought I saw a black flicker, a tail, around his rear, like a cat’s.  His whole manner was of a cat, I tried to find reason, and wondered not for the first time if I was dreaming.  I was jolted back to reality when the man spoke again.

“May I ask why you are staring at my ass?” he shifted, sitting up, his tan skin rippled, muscles and stripes and spots.  He never took his eyes from the yarn.  After a moment, when I did not answer, he looked up.  His eyes.  They were pure black with a cat’s pupil, but the pupil was white – just like the eye on the door.