by L A Cotton
Quickly, I put the paper back down on the desk, and then turn to face the window and close my eyes — I don’t see the point in wasting time! I throw my shaking right hand out in front of me, palm first. Then, when I let my fingers fall slowly forward, I jump but don’t open my eyes. My fingers are clutched around something round and cold and the sunlight that was shining through my eyelids just a moment ago is now gone, and I know exactly why.
I blink my eyes open and see an old, grand-looking wooden door blocking out the sun from the window. I know that technically if I try to open it, it will be blocked by the wall behind it, but something in me tells me that this won’t be the case. Testing this theory, I turn the handle and open the door. It swings open without resistance, and I find myself looking into a small tunnel — the portal — which leads into a familiar-looking room.
I take a deep breath and am about to start walking down the tunnel when something soft and light hits my back and makes me turn. I’m suddenly full of anxiety. I’ve come so far, so much further than I’ve ever come before and I’m terrified that my dream will end before I have all of the essential information. That’ll be torturous to my patience!
However, staring at the office before me, and library-looking room beyond, I can’t see anyone or anything else that might threaten my walk through the portal. All I see is a white paper airplane, which lies at my feet.
I bend down to pick it up and examine it, immediately noticing something that indicates that it’s another message for me, not a threat at all. In minuscule writing on one of the wings, is written:
You must always close the portal behind you.
I only read it once, knowing that I will never forget. Then I lay the plane on the desk next to the other piece of paper and I turn again to walk into the tunnel. This time, with no interruption, I close the door behind me.
It’s shorter than it looks, and I soon pass through the open door at the other end and stand in the familiar room: my living room. I shut the second door and watch it disappear, as behind it, Felix and I come into view. He doesn’t look up and I do not wake, so I know that, right now, I must be invisible.
Felix is staring at the TV with a half-longing, half-envious look on his face as he watches the two main characters make love. I roll my eyes and then shift my gaze to myself, asleep on the sofa. I glide — rather than walk — over to the sofa and lean over the back of it to get closer to my sleeping-self.
I smile and whisper, “Now you know.”
* * *
I wake with a start as a huge explosion booms on the television. Felix laughs at me, and for a moment I’m in a complete daze. Thankfully, though, I remember the dream I’ve just had.
It takes every ounce of my patience to sit through the rest of the film with him and the small talk that follows. Despite my fondness for my friend, I want nothing more than to be alone in my room to evaluate my new information. Only two hours later, when I’ve finally gotten rid of Felix, and have said a rushed, Hello, how was your day? to my mum, do I sprint up to my room and quickly close the door.
I’m breathing fast, my heartbeat races. I turn around and observe my bedroom. Like the rest of my house it’s simple: the light blue walls haven’t been painted since I was five, and not a lot else has changed either, except for the style and size of the clothes that are draped over everything. I see the cupboard to the right of the door, which stands next to a desk, which stands next to a window, with their pale pink curtains drawn. I see my posters on the left side of the door which hang over my bedside table, next to the bed… the bed!
I stare at it. The fluffy sheets that were a big crumpled mass when I left for school this morning have obviously been made by my mum, as I never bother to do them. But that’s not what has caught my attention — there’s a white paper airplane lying on my pillow.
