Day 271 - Pounding Story

Pounding Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

A pounding came at Emerson’s front door. Not a knocking, not some gentle or soft rapping, but a pounding. It sounded as if someone was going to break his door down. Emerson didn’t want to answer it, and he wouldn’t have answered, except that it sounded so urgent. That, and he wanted to make sure that in fact the person didn’t knock his door open and do permanent damage to themselves or the door. Mostly the door. Emerson didn’t know who it was or what they wanted and he wasn’t really that concerned if they damaged themselves or not. He just didn’t want the door to be broken and be responsible for the cost of fixing it. His landlord had plenty of reasons already to hate Emerson as a tenant and Emerson saw no need to add to the list.

The pounding continued. Emerson slowly set his paintbrush down. Emerson was a painter by hobby but had high hopes of becoming a painter by trade someday. It was hard to find the time to paint. After work and after his commute and after cooking and after a moment of relaxation, most of his nights were over. He didn’t think he could skip any of those steps. If he could, he would have skipped the work, but that wasn’t an option.

Inspiration was another problem. Work took a lot out of him. It drained him. He thought it was stealing a very important part of him, and not just his youth. He felt older, more tired, more jaded. It was hard to fight all of that and find the energy and desire to paint after a long day.

The weekends were filled with all the normal everyday life errands that had to be run – shopping, laundry and all the other things. With every passing day, it seemed like it became harder and harder to find the time to be creative.

That was part of the reason the pounding was so annoying. It had been so long since free time, energy and inspiration had lined up. Emerson needed to take full advantage of this moment. And instead he was being interrupted and distracted. He wasn’t the sort to worry about missing out on something. His friends knew him and knew that he had little desire to go out or waste time. He doubted that any of them would be at his door pounding away unless it was very very important.

The thought that it might be a life or death situation was one of the only reasons Emerson decided to get up. He had shut his phone off. He had been unreachable since Friday night after work. He had no plans of having any human contact until Monday morning rolled around. In the back of his mind he knew there could be some small chance that this was a real emergency that had arrived at his doorstep. He knew that it was his responsibility to somewhat do the right thing and answer the door, even if it was begrudgingly.

Emerson had been haunted by strange dreams lately. Normally he was not the sort to have nightmares nor was he prone to waking up and remembering them. But lately things had been out of the ordinary and his sleep was broken and restless. But he did have ideas. He saw strange lands and mysterious buildings and peoples. He saw the world in a dark and different way. There were angels and demons battling and death that came from above. It was apocalyptic and terrible but surprisingly beautiful at the same time.

Emerson painted it all. He had never had so many images all at once, never had so much inspiration all at the same time. He was afraid he wouldn’t get it all down and that the dreams would be lost and gone forever. He wished he could paint ten times as fast. He wished he didn’t have to rest or sleep or work or eat. Or answer poundings at doors. He really wished that was one thing he could avoid.  But for the moment, his energy was broken and he couldn’t get it back until the pounding was quelled.

Emerson walked to his front door and opened it. The pounding stopped.

Outside in the hall stood an unfamiliar, familiar face. Emerson was looking at a distorted and different version of himself, as he might look in a funhouse mirror. The Emerson that stood there was thinner and frazzled. His body looked brittle as if he was ready to collapse at any moment. The face was tired and frightened. But it was him. For all the differences, Emerson could tell he was looking at Emerson.

The other Emerson trembled, opened his lips to speak, but just stood there. For a moment it seemed like he might laugh. Or cry. Emerson couldn’t tell. The other Emerson lifted his hand for a moment as if to touch Emerson and make sure he was real. Then he did smile. He smiled the smile of relief from a great pain or burden.

Emerson didn’t understand what was going on. He wasn’t sure if this was real, or if this was another of his recent strange dreams. He thought he should speak, but didn’t know what to say.

The other Emerson spoke first.

“I’m… I’m so glad to see you. And I’m so terribly sorry.”

He reached out and pressed a strange device to Emerson’s hand.

“I just can’t die there. I can’t.”

Something clicked on in the device and there was the hum of energy and Emerson could feel the buzz of electricity as it flowed into his palm.

And then suddenly Emerson was gone. The other Emerson sighed and stepped inside the apartment, shutting the door behind him. The hallway was once again quiet.