the space above my ears.

16 Doors

You're in a circular hallway with sixteen doors facing toward you.

A clock is up above your head, but there is no midnight.

You begin with the door to your immediate left.

It's yellow and there's a series of numbers underneath the knob.

You open it, and it is a closet, only ice cubes are filling the pockets of every jacket.

No, not this one.

You move counterclockwise toward the glass door, which you do not open because you can already see inside.

It's just a box full of empty desks stacked with crates of lightbulbs.

You're bored.

Can't be this one.

You continue your path, walking four miles to the pink door.

Inside is a bedroom.

The bed is made and the carpet is clean, but you can tell someone lived here.

It is not yours.

Not this one.

You approach the creaky door looming over the concrete steps.

It opens straight into a raging sea, black and boundless.

There's no way back in once you've stepped out.

Not that one, certainly.

You move on to the next one, and it is an opening in the wall concealed by only a curtain.

When you pull it aside, the orange light streams in and you're only 70 feet away from the Sphinx.

Beautiful, but not that one.

You start to approach the black door, but you stop in your tracks.

It is adjacent, and through the slightest crack, you can hear carousel music.

You take a wide arc around it and continue.

Not that one. Never that one.

You're still feeling hopeful as you advance toward the sixth door.

It is thick and sturdy and colorless with a slim glass window in the center.

It's locked, so you peek hesitantly through the window, and it's just a science classroom.

You think it's empty until you see the mass of students unmoving and unspeaking in the corner.

You don't think it's this one.

You furrow your brow as you come upon a screen door that looks strangely familiar.

You open it and are greeted by a cherry orchard in the crepuscule.

It smells like patience, and you can't explain it.

You want to stay here, but you know it's not this one.

You press on and find yourself in front of a checkered door that is crooked in several directions.

You move to open it, but you realize it opens inward instead of outward, so you try again.

You press forward and almost fall

It's not a room, it's just a flurry of nameless, shapeless colors.

You've never been more scared.

Not that one, you think, shuddering.

You come upon the 10th door, weariness beginning to set in.

This one is quiet and made of sky.

There is no knob and it doesn't budge when you push it, so you move on.

Probably not that one, though, you suppose you'll never know for sure.

You move impatiently on to the next door, which looks strange, and you don't realize what it is until you've opened it and are peering out into the body of an airplane from the bathroom in the back.

It feels comfortable, and you stay there for a while until your ears begin to pop.

Can't be this one, it wouldn't make sense.

You proceed to the plain white door decorated with flower stickers which a printer-paper sign reading "Do Not Enter" in a child's handwriting.

You know what's inside before you open the door.

Colored animals wearing socks and scarves leap about on the carpet-like grass and some kind of music is coming from the mountains miles away.

Maybe that was the one once, but not anymore.

Your teeth begin to vibrate as you approach the heavy steel door and something about it feels wrong.

You make sure to tie your shoes before you open it.

Inside is a forest of plastic mannequins in a room illuminated by flickering floodlights.

It wouldn't be disturbing if their limbs weren't so twisted and gnarled, either none or several arms and legs stemming out from where there would usually be one.

This door is wrong. Not this one.

You eagerly move on to the next door, which is old and splintered and shorter than you.

You crouch down and peek inside.

Yes, it's a room, but it's triangle shaped and long and the floor is covered in pillows and sand.

The light is warm and you start to sweat.

Not that one, it just didn't feel alive enough.

Your heartbeat is picking up as you walk briskly toward the next door made of something the color of olives with a silver handle.

There's a girl inside at a table for two.

She's waiting for someone, but it isn't you.

Somehow hurt, you swallow your pride and move on.

Not that one.

You've reached the last door and you stand there for a minute or two.

For some reason, this door is hard to see, and you think for a second it is just a cloud of fog.

You open it anyway of course and

Nothing.

The clock strikes nonexistent midnight.

Wait, please, just five more minutes-

All the doors close and you falter, realizing that you never actually knew what you were looking for, you just expected to find it, whatever it was.

You didn't, though, and you can't fathom why.

You stand there, pondering it.

Some vague amount of time passes.

You're in a circular hallway with sixteen doors facing toward you.

A clock is up above your head, but there is no midnight.

You begin with the door to your immediate left.