“Pick, please,” a flat voice orders. My fingers drum against the scruffy fabric of my jeans as I pace around, searching for the source in the small room that houses me and two doors.
“Where am I?” I holler.
Only the echoes of my voice answer me, causing a chill to run down my back.
How did I even get here? My surroundings are unfamiliar, with too many shadows and too little light. The ground underneath me somehow creaks when the soles of my sneakers scrape against it–but upon touching it, just dirt and sand greet me.
Brushing the grime off my fingers, I look around for the entrance I’m sure I had to use to enter this chamber. There has to be a way out of here without having to pick between two doors.
After all, what if I make the wrong choice?
Or what if someone finds out and hates me for making that choice?
Stop digging yourself deeper and deeper into a hole, Li. And stop using the word “choice”.
I sigh. Sensible me is right, but of course I have to be here, wherever here is. Not Evan. Not…
Her.
I flinch and whisper a prayer.
Opening my eyes, I take small, cautious steps towards the doors. Each one has been painted a shade of white that resembles the porcelain bowls with the blue-inked engravings that my mother would serve me and my brother dinner in, and both of them–arch doors, as I’ve now realized–are a few inches taller than my five-foot-four frame. Their only difference? The Chinese characters carved into the wood.
My shoulders loosen as a tension that I hadn’t noticed floats away. Thank goodness Mother sent me to Chinese school. These symbols could be the key to picking the correct door. Before I can read them, however, the same voice from earlier shatters my concentration and I yelp, startled.
“Pick, please.”
I do my best to shake off my nerves before turning back towards the two mysteries. Peering closely, I discover that the character at the center of the left door is “day” while the character on the right is “night”.
That doesn’t help. Unless they correlate to certain myths?
Sugar cookies. Why didn’t I pay attention in school?
Because you thought it was boring, you fool.
I slap the thought away, staring at the two characters. Day. Night.
Who made these doors in the first place? Did they make them specifically to torment me? Is this–I don’t dare say it–but is it the place where dead sinners end up? Me, included?
Does that mean I’m dead?
Possibly.
Ignoring the voice in the back of my mind, I tie up my hair, deep in thought. What can I do? It’s not like there’s a time of day more correct than the other.
An idea pops into existence and I turn back towards the openings. Drawing in a deep breath, I knock three times on each door. Maybe I don’t even need to come to a decision! Maybe there are creatures on the other sides that will choose for me.
Or maybe, just maybe, this is all a test to see if I’ll knock, be polite. I grin at myself for figuring it out, despite not knowing what exactly “it” is, and despite the idea of this being a test to see if I’ll knock is too far-fetched.
And too stupid, my mind tells me, even though I’ve given it numerous orders to can it. It finally quiets down as I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
But nothing–not even a faint squeak–makes themself known.
Breathing in and out in an effort to calm down, I start playing with the recently purchased ring that rests on my right ring finger, running through all the possible scenarios of what could happen should I never choose.
I could starve and turn into a pile of bones. I could go insane from the isolation. I could pace so much that my body would eventually fail me.
Is that even possible? At least I won’t have to blame myself for choosing an unpleasant fate.
“Please pick within sixty seconds. Thank you.”
Even that robot has gotten sick of your indecisiveness, Li.
I ignore both voices, my fingers moving on from fidgeting with my ring to cracking my knuckles. I just need something to do.
“Thirty seconds remaining.”
Maybe this is just a dream. I’ll wake up soon, and get on with my day. What will I have for breakfast though? Staying here might be better.
“Twenty seconds remaining.”
What will happen if I don’t choose? Will I die? Will I live?
“Fifteen seconds remaining.”
Day? I drop down to the ground, but overestimate the power it takes and my kneecaps bawl in pain.
“Ten seconds remaining.”
Night? My hands instinctively wrap around my neck, and I close my eyes, trapping myself in the fetal position.
“Ten seconds remaining.”
Neither?
^^^
“You’re awake.”
Opening my eyes, I find myself sitting on a sofa in front of a woman who’s wearing a light beige blouse with blue charcoal trousers. A blazer the color of a liquorice rests on her armchair, certificates and diplomas covering the wall on her left. One of them reads, “Daphne Beare, Doctor of Psychology.”
“What?”
“You were taking a nap,” she returns.
“I–I was?” So that was a dream. I let out a nervous chuckle and place my hands in my lap, ignoring the splitting headache attacking my brain. “I mean, yes, I was,” I repeat, my head bobbing.
The woman, whom I assume is Dr. Beare, raises an eyebrow.
“Miss Cheng–”
“You don’t need to call me Miss Cheng, just–” I stop, hesitant to continue. You’re not supposed to interrupt people, Li! Unusually enough, the doctor waves her hands, gesturing for me to continue. “Um… just call me Lina.”
“Of course, of course.” She scribbles something on a legal pad that rests on her lap, then clasps her hands together, resting them atop her notepad. Her eyes, a warm, deep brown with just a tint of orange mixed in, meet mine. “Lina, do you know why you’re here?”
Nothing but a vague, fragmented memory of Dr. Mok suggesting I try therapy emerges amidst the migraine. I shake my head.
“Dr. Mok referred you to me, saying that you were suffering from chronic indecisiveness?”
Before I know it, my foot starts to twitch, impatiently tapping against the ground. But I stop since Mother once said that it made me look unladylike.
“I–” I say, faltering. “I think so?”
“Ah,” Dr. Beare answers. “Well then, I’ll see how I can help you with that. Do you like to draw or write? Or neither?”
My eyes widen in surprise at the seemingly irrelevant question, but I quickly regain my composure. “Uh… I’m awful at drawing… so writing?”
Dr. Beare steals a few glances at her notes before meeting my eyes again. I squirm in my seat, uncomfortable with the eye contact.
“Have you noticed that most of your statements end in question marks?”
“They do?” My breathing quickens as realization dawns on me. “Oh. OH.”
Dr. Beare nods sympathetically. “I’ll need more information, but I’m guessing that a lot of your indecisiveness stems from the worry of how you’ll look in front of others, hence your sentences always ending in question marks so that they don’t have to be set in stone.” She gives me a small reassuring smile, that I return, before continuing. “That’s why I’m recommending that you come here every week. How do Thursdays at four o’clock sound?”
“Erm…” I begin, as I play with the amethyst ring that Mrs. Medail from Topaz Grove sold me. It was a sunny Monday–one of the few days where my headaches decided to take a vacation–when I had ventured to the shops by the Shushan coast. It’s supposed to help with decision-making, she had said in her marketing ploy. I know you have trouble with that, so why not give this ring a shot?
“Lina? You there?” Dr. Beare asks, not unkindly.
“Huh?” Oh, yes. Sorry, I zoned out a bit. Um… what was your question again?”
She rests her hands on her kneecaps. “I was asking if you were willing to come every Thursday for a session. That way we can further understand your indecisiveness and figure out ways to combat it.”
“Sure…” I respond, my voice drifting off. I struggle to form coherent thoughts whilst the piercing pain is on the verge of shattering my head.
“Great, then I’ll see you next Thursday on the twenty-fourth.”
My head bounces up and down, my legs itching to carry me back home where I can rest and defend myself against the monster ransacking my skull. I’m in such a hurry that my words manage to trip over each other. “Yup, sounds excellent, yup. See you, bye.”
Standing up to see me to the door, Dr. Beare waves as I leave her office. I can barely summon enough strength to walk, much less wave, so I merely attempt to smile before staggering towards my brother’s SUV that pulls up to the curb.
Author’s Note: This story was written in response to multiple prompts I found on Reedsy Prompts. If you ever find yourself stuck with writer’s block, you should definitely check it out!
