“What’s the matter?” asked Mercedes, Rocío’s mom. Her hair was dyed black, but her roots were flaxen blonde. She was already seated at the kitchen table by the time I trudged out of the bedroom. “You look tired. Didn’t you get any sleep?”
I shrugged as I entered the kitchen. “I’ve just been having weird dreams.”
“She tosses and turns and mumbles in her sleep every night, Ma,” Rocío revealed, throwing me under the bus. I threw her a scowl, which she ignored.
It was square, with no partitions or bracings. The window hovered ahead without the help of a wall, and a dim light spilled through the glass, a dusty bone-white glow that fell off the bottom of the window like a waterfall at the edge of the world. I had expected the light to stretch on for eternity, but the emptiness swallowed the rays. Captured them.
Snuffed them out.
For the past several days, I had the same recurring dream. In it, I stood a little over two meters from the red door, and in each dream I took a step closer. The last thing I wanted was to go near it–to see whatever the door had to show me. I wanted none of it, but I didn’t know why.
Why does it make me feel this way? I asked myself when I woke up last. It’s just a door.
The door opened.
Shadows crept in, scaling the walls and slithering across the ceiling.
He took a step in.
Who is that? My body asked.
My mental presence shook her head, panicked. I-I don’t–
He took another step in.