An interesting bit of fiction I wrote last night.
The bright florescent lights against the white walls were nearly blinding. For a moment he thought that perhaps time had frozen. As his eyes began to adjust he began to look around. The other faces in the room began to come into focus. He started to realize that they were staring at a spot on the wall behind him. He turned to see what was so fascinating but only saw the blank wall. It began to set in, they were staring at him. He looked over at the single desk in the room. It was also painted white with two doors behind it. One black and one white. The old man sitting at the desk looked up for a moment from his paper work looked at him for just a moment with grimace.
He struggled to figure out where he was and how he got there. Before he could gather all of his thought together properly the old man spoke. “Janice Cawley.” A young blonde woman arose from her seat. “White door.” She walked hesitantly to the door. She opened it, stepped through, and closed the door behind her without looking back.
A sense of wonder arose with in him. What was behind the door? Which then brought back his original line of thought. Where was he and why was he here. Everyone shifted their gaze from the door back on to him. What were they looking at? He began to examine their faces. They seemed familiar but no one he really knew. He then looked down at his shirt and everything came back to him. “George Grainger. White door.”
The explosives he had detonated just moments earlier were still there, completely intact. He then realized who all these people were. The people he had just killed. Sweat started dripping from his face. His hands began to shake. He had certainly completed his mission but he’s now sitting in a room full of people who know what he had done. “I’m so sorry.” He announced to all the people around him. The people snubbed the apology. Most turned away. With a poof another person appeared in the room. Shaking violently that steadily slowed. The elderly woman looked around gaining her bearings. “Gloria Swanson. Black door.” This was an interesting turn of events. All eyes were trained on the black door. A nearly skeleton looking brunette sheepishly stood up. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Black door” the only man replied coldly. She walked slowly as if to delay the inevitable as much she could. As she opened the door she looked back in desperation. She received no sympathy from the room. She walked in and the door slammed shut behind her. A single muffled scream could be heard from the otherwise silent room.
“I can’t go in there!” he thought as looked around franticly for an alternate exit. There were none to be found. He began to face the reality of what was. This wasn’t the afterlife he was promised. His motives no longer seemed honorable. In fact they didn’t seem to matter. More and more people were called to their respective doors. Always a quiet scream that came from the black door and nothing from the white door. The room was now emptying faster than it was filling. He sat alone for some time. Poof. Someone else appeared. It was a small child. She sat next to the man wearing the suicide vest. “Hi” She asked with a seemingly friendly voice. “Hello” he responded gruffly. “Why did you kill us?” She asked rather matter-of-factly. “I…” “Amanda Sawyer. White door.” “Ok Bye!” She said cheerfully skipping towards the door.
The room was once again empty. The man stirred restlessly in his chair. “James Whitford. Black door.” The old man said with almost a smile on his face. He rose from his chair awaiting his fate. He walked with determination towards the door. When he arrived at the door he hesitated for just a moment, turned the knob and walked in. The door slammed shut behind him. There was the familiar muffled scream. The old man arose from his desk. Gathered his papers and opened the white door. He turned off the lights as he closed the door behind him.