The Other Side

He reached out and held the door handle. As he did, his legs buckled as a surge of information fought it's way through his conciousness. Every moment from his past framed and uploaded in a circuit that pulsed in his sinew. He tried to grasp onto one thought to still the swell; a dropped ice cream cone, Fresian cows in a field, a naked lady with her hand on her neck, a ruby guitar with broken strings, but still millions of images continued to morph and flicker.

He released the handle and slumped on the step, the images gone but replaced by a forceful nausea that argued with his balance.

But now he knew where he was, and why he was here. That information surge. A deja vu that was cyclical and unstoppable. He recognised the door. Wooden, ornate, a haunting deep emerald paint that was splintering at the corners like porcupine quills. Brass handle, brass knocker. No letterbox.

Through the door was passage to his own self, twenty three years ago. He would be a scrawny Dermot at thirteen. Living in the country with his parents and siblings, wearing tattered white pumps. He would have angst and anger of a different type, but he would have naive ambition. And he would have the "incident". Thirteen was his big year. Was everything predetermined for him? It must, hence the deja vu and images, as solid and real as if viewed on a reel of film.

But this time there was something different. A bend in the cycle. Some kind of awareness that had not been present the infinite number of previous times. He needed to meditate as he walked through the doorway, not forgetting anything of the past twenty three years. Perhaps this time he could change his history/future.

The ground seemed to sigh beneath him, and he held the handle again, eyes screwed, mind focussing only on his pocket knife, a thirtieth birthday present. He was unsurprised to find the door unlocked, and a little stiff. With a shove, he stepped forward.

The End

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