“The Corridor” - Part 1

It's a long corridor lined with colourful pictures, all the walls are grey and the picture frames are black.....but the pictures seem to echo memories of my past. There is a door at the end of the corridor and it seems to have a bright light behind it....maybe I should open it..

I stand in the entrance of the corridor and my attention is drawn to the first picture on my right. It contains many friends from many years, I recognise so many faces. I search for their names but I struggle to place them all. I start to feel a tug from the picture behind me; it seems to demand my attention!

So I turn to observe the picture that beckons me, I hold my breath as I see images of people, at first babies, then children then adults...are these my children ? And some of them are holding children. I shiver...

I want to turn back and look at the picture of my friends but I can't seem to take my eyes away from the portrait that called to me. I start to feel weaker and something pulling and my heart.....

I force myself to stop looking at the evolving portrait and take one step closer to the door. On my right is a blurred picture, it seems to represent a man in a bed, it looks like a hospital bed and I see something familiar in the face of the man.........

Unable to focus on the mans face, my attention is drawn to the information board placed at the foot of the mans bed. His name is Brian Thomas Powell, he is 52. He will be released in 12 hours; he will die in 28 hours time. He is my father....I breathe slowly.......and....

I'm pulled once again by a picture opposite my fathers; I turn around to see myself in a Crematorium. I am stood next to a very old woman and she is crying. I recognise my Grandmother. She is attending the funeral of the last of her children, seven children in all. The shivers return........

....I can't take my eyes off the picture at the crematorium with my Grandmother; I think my sister is there. My Grandmother has a board on her back with a descending counter in it; it says 18 Months, 22 Days, 5 hours and 16 minutes. I want to scream at the painting... I do not seem capable of speech...

....I want to take another step towards the door. My legs struggle to take the step, movement is becoming difficult. So many pictures. Blindness would be a mercy, but I must look at them. So, I step forward and turn to my right...Oh no......’

…This picture leaves me cold. A young woman is cradling something in her arms. She cradles a small void, a space, something that is gone forever and cannot be replaced. An outstretched hand is visible at the side of the picture; is it mine? She does not see the hand; she will never see the hand, just the void. I close my eyes. I cannot look at this picture anymore….

…I turn towards the door at the end of the corridor, the light behind door seems less bright now, or, is the door further away?. I’m aware of another portrait on my left. I don’t want to look at anymore pictures but I seem to have to before I can proceed to the door! I could always turn back, I could leave if I wanted to, I’m sure I could. Could I?

The portrait on my left seems strange to me at first. It shows a road going into the distance. The road forks into two paths. In the distance on the left fork I see a man standing alone. He is looking at a group of people stood in the distance on the right fork. The group of people seem confused as if the man on the other road should be with them! Is that me? The man is so far away it’s impossible to be sure…..

To my right I see a picture of myself, stood in a room by a window. Bright light streams into the room, half of me in light, half in shadow. My eyes are drawn to the shadow. Something is there, something not quite right that makes me want to move closer to the window. I want to be away from the shadow. I want light. The picture has echoes of an unseen demon that prefers darkness. This can’t be right, this can’t be…..

Another step. Another picture. Look left. A small child sits on a bed alone, his face streaked with tears. He doesn’t understand, he feels bad. He feels broken inside. He is my Son. I want to hold him. I want to make everything right, to take his pain away. I feel my knees hit the ground and my head sinks into my hands. It’s only pain, always there…..

I stand up. I turn around to see a small portrait of a man and a woman; I think the man is me and the woman…my Mother! They are stood back to back, silence fills the room. Above them is a clock. The clock ticks and displays a message….15 years 3 months 16 days…….silence….time for another step towards the door.

I take a step, cold grips me. I feel like ice, I feel….frozen. I turn to my right. There is an image of a man. He holds a gun and he is pointing it at himself. I know what is going to happen. He tries to pull the trigger but he is a coward. He puts the gun down. He disappears into shadow. Dark shadow. Blackness.

Opposite the gun picture I see a portrait of a crowded bar. Everyone is talking and laughing. In the middle of the crowd I can see myself. I don’t want to go home. I want to be laughing. I want to be happy. I want to forget. I leave.

The door; I have to focus on the door. There is still a little light pushing through. If I could just make it to the door then maybe, just maybe I won’t have to see anymore of myself.

The next step reveals the inevitable portraits. On the right I see a woman and a man, the woman appears to be the same woman that was cradling a small void. She seems very angry. The man is hunched, shrunken. I want him to stand straighter, to say something. The woman does not appear to notice the man.

Opposite the couple there is a picture of a mountain. Someone is trying to climb; they seem to keep slipping back. Something is wrong. The climber appears to be injured, hurt in some way, not able to move properly as if they were dragging limbs.

I look to the door; I can see four more portraits. Once again I hold my breath; these pictures seem blank. No, not blank….Black. Like the frames, almost indistinguishable from that colour. A darkness that speaks volumes. Nothing to see, just a feeling of something. I notice that the last picture appears to contain something else….

Two steps and the final portrait comes into view. The picture, at first murky, slowly clears. I see a man sat in a room. He is writing a story. He only seems able to use half his body. I can read the title of his story..”The Corridor”. I place my hand on the door handle and I notice a note the man has written next to the story, it reads…”Don’t open the door”.