"FOUR D"

By Gregory Morrison

Entrance of Elise



Now, when everything is this way, and some of the answers have been found, there's only one thing I don't get: why is this a room and not a street?



I'll tell you everything from the very beginning.



I opened the door to my little apartment with a big key, entered, dropped the shopping on the floor, and slumped down into a small chair in the hallway. It was winter.



"Elise, you're exhausted," I pitied myself aloud, looking at the clock in the corner. Ten o'clock. I sighed.

Winter had started early this year. It was already seriously cold, and we were only in November. It's not that I don't like winter; actually, I do very much. It's just the freezing cold that annoys me. I didn't know how I was going to get around to visiting my parents.



Lately, I'd come very close to losing it on several occasions. Everything had just started to fall apart around me; it seemed as if I was some sort of a magnet attracting all the unwanted aspects of life. I thought about it every moment of my conscious life, but it seemed as if someone had decided that was not bad enough, so I dreamed about it now as well.



Two weeks earlier, my doctor had prescribed some medicine to help me beat the stress and stay calm, on top of the usual medicine I had to take. I was surrounded by pills. Sometimes, I got confused about which I should take; there were so many!



I was looking at the bags with the groceries I'd just bought; I was the last person in the supermarket. I decided I must be mad—my life had fallen apart, and what did I do? I went shopping and got lots of food. My fridge was packed with food, but obviously that wasn't enough for me. I liked the thought that someone could come to see me at any moment.

"Elise!"

"What?"

One more thing about me: I like talking to myself. There are two women living inside my head. One is an insane freak with lots of answers without any questions. The other is a brokenhearted woman, who hasn't got the slightest clue about what she's done wrong in life.



My doctor said all our emotions change with time. No matter, whether good or bad, they always change. So I just had to be strong when feeling down and use my inner powers to overcome the blues.



"He's a waste of time! All he wants is power over you!" my psycho half shared her opinion.



What could I say to him? He was a doctor trying to do his best to help me out here, yet I couldn't even lift myself out of that stupid chair…not to mention all the emotions I was trying to control. It was easier just to scream.



Lately, I'd hardly spoken to anyone. Since I was dumped, I hadn't managed to make any friends.



I let out a deep sigh; my doctor said it helps to relieve the tension. At least I still had a job. The two parts of my divided inner self started to laugh.



"A job! What a ridiculous thing to be proud of!" said the freak.



"This job kills a part of you every day." whispered the heartbroken one sadly.



What really surprised me here was that they practically agreed, which didn't happen very often.



"My doctor says it's important to work; otherwise, you just start to disintegrate!" I was trying to stand up for myself.

"He's a twat! Of course he'd say that!" The freak carried on.



"You're so cruel!" shouted the other.



The peaceful harmony hadn't lasted long; they were already disagreeing.



They started to argue. My pills were in the bathroom cabinet. I got up slowly and started walking toward the bathroom. The women were still talking and didn't seem to be any nearer to finishing their argument.



I opened the cabinet, which was mounted on the wall just over the sink. As I grabbed the pill bottle, I suddenly felt dizzy, and the bottle fell from my hand. I just froze, holding on to the sink. My head was spinning. When the bottle hit the floor, the lid popped off and the pills flew all over the bathroom floor. I sat down. The headache didn't go; however, the ladies inside my head had stopped their conversation. This normally happened when I was in trouble, but how long would it last? I didn't believe them anymore. I picked two pills off the floor, put them in my mouth and swallowed them with some tap water. I felt better, emptier. My head felt lighter…but not for long.



I looked in the mirror as I had done earlier this morning. I started to study my face, my wrinkles, the fine lines, and my eyes, hair, and skin. "I'm still pretty. I can easily meet someone new," I said to myself. My eyes opened wide with fear. I was only repeating my doctor's words. There was little hope in those words. My hair looked darker. I had had it cut, but I didn't have it dyed, in spite of the hairdresser's suggestion to change the color. Or maybe I did? I couldn't remember. I can be so easily influenced.



Having picked all the pills up off the floor, I put them back into the bottle and returned to the hallway where my shopping was still lying on the floor. The clock on the wall beeped. It was 11:00 p.m. The echo of the broken woman rebounded around my empty head; she had started to panic:



"I have no life; this isn't me! This isn't happening to me!"



"Shut up and go to sleep!" the echo of the other said in return.



I'll do just that, I thought. Drink some cold milk and take two more pills. I went to bed and suddenly remembered I had left the bags with the food on the floor in the hallway. Never mind, I thought. I'll sort it out tomorrow. I covered myself with the quilt, so I could see only darkness, and closed my eyes.

***



The Dark Room



The cold woke me up. It wasn't pleasant or cozy. I was shivering. I reached out for the quilt but couldn't find it. I opened my eyes. I was surrounded by thick darkness. What's going on? I'm lying on the floor. This can't be right; I've never fallen out of bed before! My doctor did warn me this could happen, but I didn't believe him. Here we go! My eyes couldn't get used to the darkness. I raised myself up slightly and reached out into the air—nothing. I reached out to the other side: there was a wall.



I was in a corner!

So what's happened exactly? I fell out of bed and ended up in the corner of the room? My thoughts were all over the place, as I tried to remember the interior of my room: the armchair, coffee table, lamp shade, and bookshelves. I turned toward the wall and touched it again. I sighed heavily.



It wasn't my room!

The wall was rough and cold. Pieces of mud clung to my fingers after I touched it.



Not letting go of the wall, I slowly got up and started moving clockwise like a blind cat, rocking and stepping very carefully. After a couple of steps, I felt a different texture. It was wood; it's impossible to confuse that with anything else. It was a door! I started to move the handle up and down. I was so eager to open it.



I've been kidnapped! I realized. Don't panic. Don't let the two women wake up. The pills! What am I going to do without them? Don't panic! Keep moving.



Behind the door, there was the same wall. I found another corner and one more door. It was locked like the first one. I knocked on it; the sound was blunt. There was no light coming through it either. It was clearly a dead end. Slowly, I moved on, stepping very carefully. I bumped into another corner. I realized the room was square. A few steps on, there was a third door. It was locked. Somehow, I was okay with the fact that all the doors were locked. I guess I just preferred not to know what was behind them.



"You're thinking about your hubby again! How much longer are you going to be thinking about him?" I asked myself.

I was right—the room was square. I reached the last corner and, by logic, the last door. The next thing I felt was not a door, but a light switch.



The light pierced the room. I covered my eyes with my hand. I want to get out of this, I thought before realizing it wasn't my bedroom. Who has kidnapped me and how? I slowly moved my hand away from my eyes and started to look around. I was standing in a small square room with a low ceiling—no windows, bare walls, and an old wooden floor and doors. It was strange that the ceiling was that low. It actually touched the top of the doors. I felt that there wasn't enough air in the room.



There were four doors, three of which I had checked already. There was one left, the one by the switch. I held my breath for a few seconds, and then suddenly, turned the handle. The lock clicked, and the door opened. I closed my eyes and entered another room.

***



About the Author: Gregory Morrison is originally from the Ukraine and works as a script writer and author. He has written scripts for short films such as “Stain Remover” and “Frankie Said Relax.” In his free time, he likes traveling, spending time with friends and is an amateur photographer. Morrison currently lives in London.http://www.facebook.com/fourd1" title="http://www.facebook.com/fourd1" target="_blank



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