Board Thread:Off-Topic Fun/@comment-11464223-20131219053220

Also the one I called a mindfuck, or rather, meant to be one. The mindfucking doesn't come into play until the end, and seeing as I'm far from the end, it's technically not there. I've got the entire story planned out though, and if you want to know the context/basic idea/whatever, post on my message wall, I'd rather not spoil it here.

As far as this piece goes I'm feeling more solid about the first four paragraphs than the rest, but again, as always, any form of feedback is HIGHLY appreciated and will put me in your debt haha. So yeah.

Here it is!

--

You plummet into darkness. The neat, polished, white-tile Hospital floor vanishes from beneath you. Everything in the room rushes upwards, the beginning of a long decrescendo into the emptiness: A blur of messy, unkempt, black hair from the head of the patient, a flatscreen television opposite the boy's bed blasting Kim Kardashian's voice in yet another unnecessary, unwanted, spin-off of Keeping up with the Kardashians, a mobile tray of the typical glop Hospitals pass off as "Food"...and, oh, yes, thank heavens, that stagnant, heavy smell of Hospital. You've mostly grown used to this part of your job, and you gaze towards the disappearing room above you nonchalantly, as it becomes smaller and smaller. Thoughts of that cutie at the register in Starbucks this morning drift to the forefront of your mind, but you push them away, needing to focus now. Kim's voice begins to become distorted and distant, and you barely make out the Doctor that had been standing next to you as he appears to yell, "Try to stay in as long as you can!"

And then, there it is: You notice it. The one thing that you didn't get used to, and you probably never will: You're falling, but there's no air whooshing past you, no wind to vigorously flap around your tie, or whip through your hair, or throw around your briefcase. There's almost nothing, in fact, even there to actually confirm that you are falling. The only thing that confirms that you are indeed falling is the ever-smaller hospital room, now far above you. And then, as you double, and then triple-check for its' presence, you see it finally disappeared into the darkness, culminating its' decrescendo. But just as you think you are left with nothing to gague your fall, you peer below you, and you see what appears to be a ring coming up to meet you. You take note of its' wide edge and ample area with a groan: It's going to be a long "day at the office" today!

Your fall comes to an end in the center of the ring, and you look around you at its' inner edge. It's made of doors. Doors of every shape, size, and color. This is one part of your career that will never cease to amaze you. No matter what, from job to job the doors are always vastly different, the collective ring of them unique in every possible way, every time. It's the details, though, that really set them apart. This time was no different.

You begin to walk around-of course there being no actual floor beneath your feet, only darkness, it feels a little bizarre, but you've learned to ignore it-and search for the one door they always have in common. Your reference point. To your surprise, you find it almost immediately-well, not that it's usually hard to find a massive, black, padlocked door covered in chains among a massive cluster of doors without locks, but this one was particularly easy. Walking up to it, you take note of the indent at its' core, shaped like one half of the Ying/Yang symbol. That's something you'll be looking for. The other half of the Ying/Yang symbol was carved into the door, so that if one were to insert the missing half, the symbol would be complete.

Opening your briefcase, you take out your compass, your magnet, and your camera, carefully sticking the magnet to the massive, black, padlocked door covered in chains. This will serve as your reference point. With the camera (one of those big, black ones with a little slot for an automatic dispensor), you snap a picture of the Ying/Yang indent, and place it in an empty folder in your briefcase labeled with the patient from the hospital room's name.

That done, you continue to observe the doors surrounding you, and take note of some of the more distinct ones: There's a door made of pebbles, with a faint design carved into it. As you lightly brush your fingers over the doors' pebbles, you notice the bottom ones feel smoother, and looking at them, appear more uniform, than the top ones, which stand out more on their own, as if yet to be eroded by time. That is, for all the stones on the door but one-the middlemost one. You clear off the dust, and you could swear it was glowing, smack in the middle of the door, proudly brandishing its' design: A design of two stick figures, one bigger than the other, holding hands. The smaller one was looking up at the bigger one with eyes full of wonder and excitement, a stare the bigger one returned with a look of love and caring. The smaller one had a backpack on his back, and the bigger one, in his free hand, had what appeared to be a magic wand. Additionally, in his makeshift pants pockets, were what appeared to be drumsticks. Could the figures be father and son?

Again pulling out your briefcase, you withdraw your camera once again and snap a picture of the door. The camera spits out the picture, and you turn it around and scrawl its' position relative to the black, padlocked door on the back, using your compass. After placing the picture in your pocket and jotting down a mental note to return and explore the pebbled door, you move to find another door.

The next door you approach towers far above your head, and is made of solid gold, save for a window placed just above your eye level, made of the clearest glass imaginable. As you're climbing onto your tippy-toes to peer through, you hit your head on something jutting out from just below the window: A hunk of gold, shaped like a trophy. It astounds you how remarkably hard it is to see, blending in with the door so well. You feel for it to make sure it's really there, and as if on cue, a drop of liquid shimmies down the side of your face. You sweep your hand across your forehead, and stop where there's a slight bump, fresh and pooling with blood. Damn trophy.

Patched up with a band-aid from your first-aid kit in your briefcase, you climb onto your tippy-toes once again, and peer through the window, this time more carefully. The sight before your eyes causes you to stagger and lose your balance-you nearly fall on your ass. The room behind the golden trophy door is the largest, most elaborate trophy room you have ever seen. Trophies were stacked as far as the eye could see, and as high as the window permitted you to see. There were shelves and shelves and shelves and shelves of them. Every trophy was unique in shape, size, and form, and each trophy was mounted on a plinth, and on each plinth was a plaque with scribbled writing, to boot. One trophy stood out from the crowd, however-and it was straight in front of the window, raised on a platform, at the center of all the trophies. It seemed to be in the shape of a star. You squint your eyes in an effort to make out the writing on the trophy's plaque, but nothing stands out to you beyond the word "Saviour". Fascinating!

Once you finish gawking over the sheer insanity of the trophies, you repeat the camera ritual, scrawlings on the back of the picture and all, and move to the next door. 