It started as most things do, which is to say under fairly mundane circumstances. The group, consisting of coworkers from some large and faceless multinational corporation has gathered in the home of their boss for a birthday party. He’s turning the big 6-0 this year and wants to live it up like he did when he was turning the slightly less impressive 3-0. As he put it to others gathered around the water cooler at the office when announcing the shindig, “twice the age, twice the party!” which everyone seemed to find awfully charming for some reason.
You arrive late but nobody seems to notice, which is not altogether odd to you but still disheartening nonetheless. Making sure to be seen by the boss, you then make the usual rounds and chat with the folks you know you should, but the enjoyment that is supposed to come from this particular breed of social interaction does nothing for you tonight. If you are being honest with yourself though, it never really did anything in the first place. The brief memory that it may have at one point crosses your mind, but that seems so far off in the past now. An idealized and even romanticized version of how this is supposed to work runs through your head constantly but you’ve always been more comfortable with just yourself than in any group you’ve ever tried to mesh with. Having suddenly made peace with that fact, you take your drink and start an impromptu solo tour of your boss’ home. There has to be something interesting in the house of a guy who makes as much money as he does, right?
The hallway is dark and quiet; its off-pink shag carpet seems to dampen your footfalls and even drown out the fervor of the party behind you as you move into the long shadows pulsing darkly at the back of the house. As you begin to ask yourself just how long this hallway is, you start to peripherally notice the other rooms branching off to the left and right of you. So many rooms. Far more, in fact, than you would guess by looking at the outside façade of the home. Dull, dark rooms full of shapeless people who, like you, probably just wanted some quiet during this exercise in forced revelry. Their eyes dart alarmingly in your direction as you pass each room, as if to brace themselves for an unwanted interaction they will suffer through and despise altogether. Fearing that one of them may call on you to interact, your feet instinctively increase speed in an attempt to get out of the hallway as soon as possible. In your haste to escape the darkened doorways of conversations unwanted, you fail to fully notice the Other, who, like you, occupies the hallway and whose aura is quite different than the poor souls in the darkened rooms. You are aware of the Other, and that little reptile in the back of your brain may be telling you to RUN, but that would be rude, no? Civilized folks don’t run unless there’s something concrete to run from. Just pretend you don’t see them and finish your tour. If you were the boss though, you would be quite upset at the Other for marking what appears to be graffiti in bright yellow marker all over the hallway walls; odd signs that you think you should recognize but can’t quite pull the meaning out of for some reason.
Having travelled down what seems to be miles of cerebral pink shag, you start to hear it. It started off in the distance but is now audible with every step you take. Someone is behind you. The Other is behind you, stepping when you step and stopping when you stop, always in the corner of your eye but never in plain view. You think for a moment about the old you, that fearless and young you who would have turned right around and given this thing a piece of your mind for doing whatever it is they are doing. But you just can’t seem to build up the nerve. That isn’t you anymore. As you begin to travel even faster down the hallway (this must connect back to the room where the party is happening at some point) you start to hear the whispers, calling for you to turn around and talk just for a moment. "Listen to me" the Other demands. Simultaneously out of the rooms around you, you hear quiet pleas urging you to not answer the Other. The Other is dangerous and you know it too.
Ignoring the urge to look at who (what?) is speaking behind you, all semblance of proper adult etiquette that has been ground into your mind for decades leaves as if a fog has been lifted. Now running down the hallway, you desperately look for any way that takes you out of this fucking hallway and back into the awkward embrace of humanity. Passing door after darkened door, you find nothing to save your mind from the Other behind you, and you know what you have to do because you’ve always known what you’ve had to do.
And you do it.
But nothing is there when you turn, and you see what you’ve been looking for this whole time: a way back to the party with the rest of the huddling masses who, even though they may not understand you or appreciate you, are here for you. Or at least are here with you. Shaking off what you know to be your overactive mind playing tricks with you again (you’re always overthinking things, aren’t you?), you exit the hallway and it’s drab, off-pink shag to embrace the party. For now, at least.
But the hallway and its darkened doors are still there. The Other waits, and is a patient beast.
It is always behind you.
Comments