The Path We Chose

Dean found himself in a gleaming white corridor that looked as if it had just been issued a new coat of paint. It was impossibly bright but somehow it did not cause him to flinch or blink to gaze upon it. He observed this as he began, (or continued, he didn’t know), to walk down the seemingly endless hall. He noticed that if he looked hard enough he could see himself in the wall, his reflection looking back at him with a confused expression. His dark brown hair fell about his eyes. The ceiling was high above him, and was the same brilliant white to match the walls, which stood about ten feet apart. He tried to remember how he had arrived here but it was obscured by a thick fog in his mind.

He squinted his deep brown eyes into the distance and stopped when he saw a small rectangular object. He could not make out any detail on it, which left only one viable option. As he continued he saw flecks of black begin to litter the white canvas, but these were minimal and he paid them little attention. He quickened his pace and tried to keep count of how much time he had spent here, but it was impossible to keep track. He felt as if only minutes had passed since he found himself in the magnificent hallway, but at the same time as if he had been pushing onward for years.

Whatever the case he eventually was close enough to see what he was approaching was a door. It was thoroughly ordinary, brown with a darker wood he thought was ebony surrounding it as a frame. Puzzled, he moved onward, curiosity lighting up inside him. The door opened of its own accord as he got within twenty feet of it, and what he saw filled him with wondrous joy and contentment. He approached the door surely, as understanding dawned upon him and he whispered two words, gratefully, just before he crossed the threshold. ‘Thank you...’



Mark Mitchell



Beep, Beep, Beep.

Mark awoke from his slumber with a jolt as his alarm rang chirpily from his bedside table. When he realised what the high pitched noise was, he moaned groggily and rolled over onto his front, pulling his pillow around his head, trying to avoid the inevitable moment where he would have to draw himself away from the warm comfort of his duvet. Reluctantly, after this had gone on for a couple of minutes, he groaned and reached his arm out blindly to shut off the irritatingly sharp sound. He lay there for another minute before forcing himself up to answer the phone, which had replaced the role of the alarm clock.

‘Hello, Mark speaking,’ He yawned the words; it was six am after all.

‘Morning Champ, just ringing to remind you that you’re picking me up for the reading of the will this morning.’

‘Yeah, don’t worry Jason I haven’t forgotten,’ He and Jason had never been very fond of each other, but after Dean passed away they had been forced to be in contact with each other as Jason was Dean’s closest friend. Mark had never known two such different people to get along so well. He suspected Dean had not known Jason as Mark thought he knew him.

They exchanged small talk as Mark fixed some breakfast, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder. As poured his scrambled eggs out the measuring jug onto a sparklingly clean plate he wrapped up his conversation.

‘So I’ll see you in half an hour,’ he finished, and hung up, placing the phone on its charger.

As he thoughtfully munched on his eggs he looked around the kitchen. It was a good size and meticulously clean. Mark had always been a neat freak and hated anything to be out of place or dirty. His brother had always been the opposite and most would say he was actually a bit of a slob, but this would just make him laugh. He considered that he would probably move homes if the inheritance was sizeable enough and flicked the television in his kitchen on, only for his thoughts to be interrupted by a news clip about Dean.

It showed him supporting a small black child on his shoulders while two more played around his feet. The children had exceptionally bloated stomachs and huge grins on their faces; one woman was standing behind the playful foursome filling up a bucket from a wooden and metal water pump, looking over at Dean and the children with an adoring look on her face. This scene froze and a female news reporter was heard over the children’s playful cries.

‘Dean Mitchell’s funeral date has finally been announced. The entrepreneur and activist touched many lives and hearts with his generosity, and his families decision is to make it an open invitation for anyone who wants to pay their respects.’

The screen cut to a clip of a woman of about sixty years of age who was beginning to show it. She had always looked younger than she was, but no matter how hard you try you cannot escape times persistent footsteps. ‘I believe that Dean would have wanted to be in death as he was in life, and he was never one to turn someone away, so we invite anyone who wishes to say goodbye to come,’ she stated, tears welled up in her bright eyes and she abruptly put down the microphone she was holding and shuffled away, wiping her eyes. The camera rudely followed her as she sought solitude to control her emotions.

‘The man’s actions have saved many lives and forged communities throughout the Asian and African continents...’ the newsreader continued, but Mark shut off the screen and went to wash up his empty plate. It’s not that he was jealous of Dean, and that was true, he was not, but he had had enough of hearing about how much of a saint he was wherever he went over the last few years.



The Reading of the Will



Soon enough, Mark was travelling to his solicitor’s office with Jason, who was talking at Mark about some kind of idea he had to help continue Dean’s projects when he was given money in the will. Mark didn’t say so, but he thought that if Jason were to see a penny he would eat his hat, and eat Jason’s as well if he were to do something selfless with it.

‘Ah hello Mr. Johnson, Mr. Mitchell,’ a tall man in an expensive suit greeted them from behind an equally expensive desk that was littered with papers and pens. Ink splotches dotted the sleek, varnished finish of the surface which made Mark want to push past Jason and spit shine it clean. Instead however, he said,

‘Hello Mr. Farrow, may I take a seat?’

‘Of course, of course, how rude of me,’ Farrow replied, waving his hand apologetically. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘Thank you both for coming. In the event of his death Dean Mitchell requested that you all come here to listen to his final wishes.’

What Mark and Jason heard was not to their liking. Jason simply sat there with his hands in his pockets mulling it over, and Mark stood up and began pacing back and forth.

‘Can we have a moment please, Mr Farrow?’ Jason enquired after a while.

‘Of course,’ he respectful replied. He put the will in an A4 envelope and went to busy himself somewhere else in the building.

When he left, Mark picked up the will to read it himself. He read it twice to make sure he had not misread while Jason looked through the solicitor’s files.

‘Dear friend and brother,’ the letter began. ‘I have asked you both to come here today to discover my last wishes in the unfortunate event that I am to die before my time. I have some bad news that I hope you take well. I have decided, after much deliberation, to leave the entirety of my finance to the charity I set up three years ago so they can continue to do their good work in my absence. My house is to be sold and put toward this fund. I hope you both understand. I originally submitted to leave the £900,000 to you both equally, but the money can do so much good and neither of you really need it, I suppose you had worked this out the moment you saw Mother and Father were not here Mark, you always were sharp.’

‘Now the vulgarity is out the way, I want to apologise to you both for my abrupt departure, and tell you both that I love you very much, I wish I had been able to say goodbye. I hope you won’t cry because it is over, but be happy that it has happened.’

‘P.S. I hope they still have ice cream in the afterlife...’

Mark did not really find any of Dean’s jokes very amusing, but then he never had. He had loved his brother, but he was stuck in a dead end job with no wife and nowhere to go. £450,000 would have changed that. He looked up and Jason was reading a file, sitting comfortably in Farrow’s chair, holding a piece of paper. ‘What are you doing?’ Mark asked harshly, he was angry and upset about the will. He knew it was benefiting a good cause, but that didn’t make it any easier for him.

Jason looked up at him and turned the piece of paper round. ‘This is the original document that he sent to be put into effect,’ Jason said.  A crafty tone had entered his voice, one that Mark did not care for, but realised what he was going to suggest.

‘Let’s swap them,’ Jason blurted out, holding his hand over his mouth in mock shock of his statement.

‘Are you crazy?’ Mark retorted. ‘What if he checks? We’ll get in terrible trouble.’

‘And what if he doesn’t? We’ll be half a million pounds richer,’ Jason’s expression was firm and set.

‘I thought you said you would put the money towards the charity fund anyway,’ Mark accused.

‘Yes, well the reality of half a million pounds makes such selflessness pale,’ Jason replied. ‘Besides, everyone’s a hypocrite; I just want to be a rich one.’

Mark pretended to consider it a little longer, but in reality he had known he would take Jason up on his proposal the moment he had thought of it himself. At least it wasn’t him who suggested it.

‘Fine, but do it quickly!’ he said, looking at the door Farrow had left through. Jason replaced it with the old version and putting it exactly where Farrow had left it. Mark folded up the newer version he had been reading and put it in his back pocket.

Farrow came back into the room just as Jason had sat back down on his seat and begun pretending to talk to Mark about his fond memories of his old friend. Mark looked blankly back at him, disgusted with himself and Jason, wondering how he could sit there so casually after cheating his so-called friend from beyond the grave. Mark had never spoken to Dean about his view of Jason’s character, but had come to the conclusion that since Dean had known Jason as a child he couldn’t see through his generous farce to his self important core.

‘I hope you two have had enough time to talk?’ Mr. Farrow asked politely, moving to leave the room if this was not the case.

‘Yes, we’re fine now, thanking you Mr. Farrow,’ Jason replied, smiling. ‘We’re just happy that Dean’s final wishes can be honoured,’ he finished.

Farrow smiled kindly back at Jason and offered him his sincerest apologies for his loss, then when he asked him if he could post the will for him on his way out Jason looked like he had been given a slight electric shock. His head jolted forward and his eyes bulged momentarily.

‘Are you alright, Mr. Johnson?’ Farrow enquired, as he sealed the envelope now containing the original will, looking up at him inquisitively.

‘Yes, fine, sorry.’

‘Well, take care, both of you,’ he said as he handed the envelope over to Mark, who felt as if he was selling his soul as he took the envelope and smiled back at Farrow.

They both left abruptly and exchanged no words as they walked side by side up the street to the nearest post box. Mark looked deeply at the small black slit and he felt like it was staring back at him. ‘Go on, I dare you!’ it seemed to exclaim. Mark offered it to Jason.

‘You do it...’

Jason snatched the envelope from him, a sneer playing at the corner of his mouth and he forcefully pushed the letter into the box, creasing it as he did so. Mark peeked inside but could only see blackness. Guilt began to niggle at his gut but the thought of half a million pounds quickly overwhelmed this and he began to plan his future in his head.



A Change in Lifestyle



The psychiatrist looked down over his horn-rimmed glasses at Mark who was lying down on his back with his head propped up on a curved sofa. Mark had seen these in films but until recently hadn’t thought he would ever be sitting on one himself.

‘I had the same dream again Doc,’ Mark began. His psychiatrist just nodded his head understandingly. He rarely spoke unless he had to, he said it was better for the patient to speak and come to understand himself. ‘I was standing in a grey corridor that never seems to end, even if I dream about it all night. The further I get though the darker the walls become, and the thinner the walls get until I am running so they don’t close in and crush me. Only last night...last night I saw something at the end of the tunnel.’

He waited for his head doctor to respond, but he only nodded encouragingly, so Mark finished lamely. ‘I couldn’t see what it was.’

‘It seems to me Mr. Mitchell, that this recurring dream could mean any number of things. However, I am starting to believe the tunnel represents your conscience. You do not need to tell me, but consider if you have done anything that would cause such guilt that it would plague you like this, and deal with the issue. If the dreams continue after that then come back and see me,’ He smiled and extended his hand to  be shaken, but Mark, lost in thought, didn’t notice and just sat up and left, mumbling his thanks as he made for the door.

As he walked onto the street it started to rain heavily. He sighed and opened an umbrella over his head. When he did so he looked at his reflection in the glass of the building he had just left. A man of about forty years of age looked back at him, donning a tailored Armani suit that fit perfectly over his now well toned body. His black hair was blowing about in the wind and his small, well-maintained beard was dripping water. As he considered what the shrink had told him he thought about giving back the money he had stolen from Dean’s projects. He had after all, invested it wisely and almost tripled the amount. But why? He never got caught and he did not believe in karma, and what was it to him if some children he will never meet have to walk ten miles to reach a water supply. While he was having this familiar argument in his head a woman with her head down and a briefcase held high above her for protection from the rain barged past, causing him to stumble. He turned around to say something but she was out of earshot over the pounding rain.

‘I hate New York sometimes,’ he said aloud and decided he was going to leave for his villa in Spain tomorrow. He needed a holiday; get away from his problems and most importantly, his recurring dream. How could he worry about such things in thirty degrees heat lying on a sandy beach with only his mistress and the waves for company. He smiled as he thought about this and began to journey back to his flat.

As he walked down the side road that led to Times Square he thought he felt someone following him. He turned around to check, rain splattering his vision, but he saw no one. After screening the area he shrugged and turned back around. What he saw made him yelp in surprise, but his attacker cupped his hand over his mouth so the cry was muffled.

‘Listen here mate,’ the rough voice began. ‘You’re going to take your wallet and phone out your pocket and give them to me, you hear?’ the muggers breath was ragged and rushed. The mugger’s eyes met Mark’s and he took a good hard look into them. They were the eyes of a man gone insane for the need of some kind of intoxicant. They told the familiar story, that if he was denied his drug he would lose whatever cool that he had left. Mark did not want to instigate this while the man was holding a knife to his stomach.

Mark had never been mugged before and was terrified, and only too happy to oblige the man’s wishes if it would save his life. He put his hand into his back pocket to get his wallet but it wasn’t there. He checked his other pockets frantically. ‘I must have dropped it, or left it at my doctor’s,’ he said, panic rising in his voice. ‘But here is my phone, take it!’

After a moment of consideration he shouted, ‘Liar!’, and Mark felt a terrible cold pain, worse than he could have imagined, fill his belly. He looked down slowly and saw the hilt of the knife sticking out of his gut, the mugger holding the other end. He looked surprised at what he had just done, his mouth agape. He pulled the hilt out and angrily stabbed him again, before running down the street into the darkness, Mark’s phone in hand, back to whatever path of destruction awaited him.

Mark stood there for another second, and then collapsed, blood gushing out of him onto his suit. He heard someone nearby yell for an ambulance, but he knew he was beyond help now. He fell to his knees and then to the concrete entirely, his head lolling into the gutter. He coughed blood onto a dirty cigarette butt by the drain. He felt arms around his shoulders trying to pull him up but he was already on his way out. As he was pulled onto his back he looked up at the face of the man trying to help him but he couldn’t make it out, it was just a blur. Mark gurgled something that the man could not understand, spat out blood, rolled his head back, and began to die.



The Changing Corridor



Mark awoke in the same corridor he had visited so often in his dreams. He was on his feet and naked and wondered where the hell he was or how he had gotten here. All he knew was he recognised this place from his own head. The Grey walls around him did not seem to be closing in on him like he remembered either. He looked behind him and just saw fog, thick and white. He reached out and touched it but its cloudlike appearance was deceptive. It was rough and felt sticky.  He turned his back on the strange mist and looked down his path. He couldn’t see anything, so like his brother before him, he began his timeless journey down the grey corridor.

As he began to wonder how long he had been here, he noticed the hallway was changing subtly. The grey was changing to a darker shade and black marks were appearing more consistently the further he went. He began to sweat as the corridor became darker and he felt like the wall and ceiling were getting less spacious between each other. There was only five feet between the two walls on either side of him and the ceiling that had started so high was now only just above his head.

Mark reached the point where he thought he could see something in the distance. He stopped and stared, trying to make out what it was when a terrible, blood curdling scream came echoing down the corridor. He screamed himself, terrified and surprised by the chilling sound, then the dark grey corridor turned instantly black. More screams of anguish began to vibrate down the walls and Mark, terrified, tried to turn and flee. The sticky fog had moved with him however and he had nowhere to go. Sobbing, he continued walking because he had nothing else to do.

Mark was running down the corridor now as the walls pulsated at him and the screaming became more frequent. They were the screams of the mothers of the children that had died as a result of his actions. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he did. All of a sudden the walls went still and the screaming stopped. He slowed down, sweat dripping from every hole on his body and watched as the door, which he could now distinguish as such, began to slowly open.

He looked on and walked slowly towards it, wiping his face of sweat as he did so, and, like his brother before him, understood what had happened to him. He remembered his death and what he had done in life. He was looking at a group of children, as they poked and prodded the door entrance oddly, looking down at it, expressions of curiosity on their little faces.

The door angle slowly changed and went to the children’s eye level. It then moved down and looked into a stagnant muddy puddle. What Mark saw was another child’s face looking back at him, his ribcage clearly visible, grinning a toothy grin at himself. As understanding dawned on Mark he screamed in protest at the walls, walls that were now far apart and stone grey once more. The door stayed open welcomingly. He was looking through the eyes of a child, and he knew the doorway would lead to his new life.

‘No! I was going to give the money back I swear, it isn’t fair, and my time was cut short!’ he complained, but it did him no good. He felt what reminded him of a gust of wind push at his back and get slowly stronger, forcing him down the corridor and toward the door. He couldn’t resist against this force and was gradually forced over the threshold of the door, his final words as Mark Mitchell echoing down the strange corridor. ‘I’m sorry!’ Mark wailed, as the door silently shut behind him, leaving him to his new life of poverty and dependence.