The Door to Dawn
From a distance, hiding in a row of bushes, I watch the kids standing in line for the bus. My heart leaps when the school bus pulls up. I feel its racing beat pound between my ears. Single-file, the kids step up into the bus, the door closes, and it pulls away. There is no turning back now. The beat of my heart fades. I step from the bushes. The neighborhood is silent. I feel alone in a desert. In my stomach, a feeling grows—a tingling. I’m on top of a roller coaster ready to drop.
I race to the woods.
The boundary that had existed between reality and imagination before I found the woman is gone. In the woods I am a childish figure scissor-cut from black construction paper. I stand in the middle of black jagged trees pasted on white poster board that stretches across the horizon. My hands fold the paper and unfold the house.
These are my trees. My cars. My yard. My swing. My picket fences. My home. I’m back from school ready to greet my Mom. I rush to the bedroom and open the door.
The last image I see before the film of my life stutters to a stop and breaks—the woman nude again on the floor. The celluloid of her pale body burns and bubbles. The screen goes white. The reel of the projector spins and the film tail spirals out in repeated flips. A distant chorus of voices chants in my head. Their voices a drum beat that slowly grows louder.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I apologize to the woman for failing her. I apologize to my mother for not protecting her. I apologize to my father for not being the son he wanted. I apologize to Nelson. I apologize to the woods. I apologize to every tree. I apologize to the house.
I alone have chosen to bear this guilt. I spit out the words in raw anger.
“I’m sorry!”
Kneeling before the woman, I grasp her cold stiff hand. I bite my lip to not make my apology again and again.
The bedroom door closes behind me. I look up. In the mirror a man stands behind me. He leans back and wedges one boot against the door. It clicks shut. He tosses one of the poisoned apples in the air.
“Don’t be sorry, you brought her back to life.”
R. Grayson Wills is a retired film production designer who now finds the joy of the written word more powerful than the screen image. Drawing inspiration from his favorite horror and science fiction writers of his childhood, Richard Matheson and Ray Bradbury, he finds that beyond the edge of a suburban backyard there is horror waiting and wanting to be discovered. Thanks to C.R.S. Grayson recommends The Whitney Plantation.
