The Door
It was old, there was no doubting that.  She could smell the mildew and must that had accumulated for years on the door.  It was dark, a stained oak most likely.  But the stain or the varnish (she couldn’t tell which) had begun to wear and weaken.  It now had begun to peel and bubble off.  The bubbling surprised her as there was no chance that outside light had ever directly hit it.  She felt the mysterious bubbling; it was soft and bumpy to the touch.  She pressed one of the many bubbles in on itself and watched as it slowly inflated itself back.  A step back. Another.       She surveyed the door from a distance now.  It was the kind of door you might find in any old house.  She knocked on it.  The knock was rapt and loud; this was no cheaply made hollow core door.  She waited.  There was no answer; she hadn’t expected one.       Should she open the door?  There was no reason why she shouldn’t.  Whatever happened to be behind it; she could deal with it.  Hadn’t she overcome that lisp?  Hadn’t she gotten over that asshole, Bill?  Nothing could stand in her way.  She had always been moderately popular, moderately pretty, moderately smart.  She was a collection of moderation.  Sure she had her strong points, but she hadn’t let them get in her way of succeeding in life.  It was a mistake to let your talent get in the way of your success, she thought.  For if your talent got the best of you, how could you hope to see clearly?  She grasped the cold, brass doorknob.       But she didn’t turn the knob.  She couldn’t.  Everything held her back.  She couldn’t fail again; she didn’t want to.  Actually, she had never completely failed, but she didn’t want to take that chance.  There had been so many chances she had already taken that she knew that this would be the one to break her.  Once she turned that knob there would be no looking back, no safety net.  If she were to fall, nothing would stop her and everything would break her. To turn that knob would be absolute failure; she knew it.  It was too dangerous to do alone.  Her hand fell off the knob.       Then suddenly she grasped the knob made warmer by her previous handling of it.  She turned the knob; there would be no turning back now.  It was all ahead of her now.  If she didn’t turn the knob and go through the door, she would die of knowledge.  She had known everything that had happened to her and knew everything that would.  But if she turned the knob there was the chance that the unknown lay before her and it excited her.  She stepped through the threshold and the door slammed behind her as if pushed by an unseen hand.       And now three doors lay before her.
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