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There was a door. She couldn’t open it, without hands. Bugs skittered through the cracks, a trail of little ants carrying breadcrumbs of memories and thoughts and dreams. She couldn’t open the door, or peer through the cracks, or reach for the breadcrumbs. She didn’t need to. She knew what was on the other side.
On the other side sat two chess pieces, sitting close together on a stage. The king piece said “No matter what happens, I’ll always-”
The rest of the sentence crumbled. Crumbs of bread, carried away. She could still see the shape of it, still taste the bread, if she thought hard enough about it. A comfort. The warm taste of home, freshly baked. Baked with love.
He’d promised, and she believed him, and it wasn’t as if he’d broken the promise on purpose. He tried. He loved her. She loved him. It wasn’t his fault that bits of her were being carried away by ants in a trail. She knew he blamed himself anyway. “I’m so sorry for dragging you into this with me,” he’d said.
It was funny, she thought, how the bread never grew stale. It still tasted perfect, even in pieces. The ants certainly thought so, carrying their feast back home. She’d very much like to go home, too. Somewhere dark and comfortable with him right beside her.
There was a door. She couldn’t open it, without hands. Her hands had crumbled away like bits of bread, replaced with blocky untextured black, destroying anything they touched. Not very good at opening doors. She could break it down if she tried, but it would be counter-productive. She didn’t want to break anything else.
She could hear a fly buzzing, on the other side of the door. It sounded familiar. It sounded like the fuzzy static in her brain, muddling everything, blocking out all other sound. He might’ve swatted at it, back when he didn’t like bugs. He still might, if his reflexes won out. She’d like to keep it safe, put it in a jar, and never let it go. No one could swat at it then. It wouldn’t fly away from her. But the door was in the way.
There was something funny happening, with her thoughts. With her brain. With her ears. With her eyes. Her eyes very much felt strange- multiplied, filtered with strange colours and kaleidoscopic patterns. She might get used to it, someday. Flies always saw the world through a strange filter, too. Darkness eased the headache for her, at least, but it was all still confusing and strong. She’d never imagined death as this. This loud buzzing, these confusing patterns, these crumbling bits of bread.
There was a door. She couldn’t open it, without hands. There was a floral smell from the other side, like a field of flowers with bumbling bees. She used to like bees, but something about this place had warped them for her. Scrawled pictures in note margins prickled at her brain, chewing away more bread. The ringmaster liked bees, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about the ringmaster anymore. She wasn’t sure how to feel about anything at all, anymore. Maybe part of her still liked bees. Maybe she was just waiting for the next sting.
Behind the door was a flower field, she knew. Flowers were funny things in this place. Cartoonish shapes and colours, assets repeated unnaturally. There was no true nature here. No pollen to spread, no seeds to sprout. The bees must be hungry. Maybe that was why the bread kept getting smaller. Its fluffy insides were certainly appetizing, even without honey.
There was a door. Spiderwebs collected along the sides. Instead of bugs in the web, there were breadcrumbs stuck in the strings. She’d always found the webs pretty, the patterns and shapes mesmerizing. It was less pretty being stuck in it, crumbs of her chewed away. She couldn’t blame the spiders. She was hungry, too.
She might’ve known, once, what was on the other side of the door. Something to do with him, probably. He’d found his way into her recipe long ago and mixed himself into the batter. She didn’t like the idea of eating him. Termites biting into the wood of the chess piece, leaving big holes where love once was. It was sad, but they had to eat something. And bread wasn’t baked to go uneaten.
There were many doors. None of them would open for her, but she was behind every one, trailing and buzzing and starving and eating. Maybe if she ate the bread enough, it would all rearrange in her stomach into something that made sense again. She liked when things made sense, when the pollen bloomed flowers, when the webs formed patterns.
There was a door, and behind it were two chess pieces, both whole and happy. It was a nice thought, one kept tucked away behind a lock to keep it safe. She’d lost the key, though. She couldn’t get in without breaking it. Breaking it would be counter-productive. She settled for the crumbs she could reach, instead of breaking open the pantry.