Doorways

I stare at the rusting metal door, running a finger over the metalwork, wondering how I got here. I can remember walking, but I have no idea why I came.

I glance at the neighbouring buildings of worn bricks and faded graffiti. A quick inspection shows that there's no way the door could lead anywhere but a brick wall. I wonder why it's here. Forgotten, abandoned. Perhaps a relic, left over from centuries past. For a moment, lost in thought, I wonder where it might have led once before.

An urge to open the door overtakes me. I laugh it off, thinking it's silly, but the feeling remains and won't leave. A chill runs through me, but I blame it on the cold overcast day.

I try the doorhandle, though it's almost certainly locked. But to my surprise, it turns. I pull it open, wincing at the screech of metal on metal.

Instead of a wall, I am greeted with a small room, painted in peeling black paint. It's barely five feet high. I step in, meaning to have a closer look, but I bump the door and it swings closed behind me, the metal hinges shrieking in protest.

I can feel my heartbeat speed up. It's as dark as the bottom of the ocean, or the sky on a moonless, starless night.

Sliding into a crouch, as the roof is too low for me to stand, I start to feel my way over to the door.

My hand catches on a handle, and I push the door open, relieved to get out. I stand up, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight.

Sunlight? It was cold and overcast only a minute ago.

The rattle of horse hooves on cobbled road attracts my attention. Looking up, I see a horse and carriage. I just barely catch a glimpse of a woman in Victorian Era makeup and bonnet before she pulls lace curtains across the carriage window. Her footman cracks his whip and the horses speed up.

I stare as if I can't believe my eyes. My mind runs as it tries to make sense of the impossible. However crazy it seems, I can't escape the impossible. Somehow, I've slipped through the fabric of time.

I crawl back through the door, which now looks to be in perfect condition. I pull it closed behind me and state at where my feet would be, if I could see anything in the pitch darkness. The damp starts to penetrate my jeans as I process what happened, and more importantly, ask myself what to do next.

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A/N: So, what did you think? I'm not sure about all the descriptive wording, it seems a little excessive to me. What do you think about it? ~