Chapter 1
When worlds of flowers frost,
And mind from daytime night,
A place kept by the lost,
Brings colour, magic, light.
When sanity shuts doors,
And numbness opens gates,
When life’s no longer yours,
Bewilderness awaits.
– the Great Di Avolo
The little girl stares at me from across the room, and soon she’ll be making the toughest decision of her young life. What’ll it be, little girl? Bad Thing Number One, or Bad Thing Number Two? Take your pick, little girl. Once you’ve decided, there’s no going back.
I stand at a lectern in the Choice chamber.
The chamber is small, painted black.
It’s near-empty – just me and the girl.
“Roll up, roll up,” I say, rapping my cane on the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys! Step right up and make your choice.”
The little girl stays where she is, arms by her sides.
I scan my cane across the room as though the place is full of people – eventually settling upon the girl.
“You there!” I say. “Don’t be shy. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Happy birthday to you.”
“Thank you.”
“How old are you today?”
“Five.”
Her eyes flicker around the dark room – the blank walls, the two doors – a green one to her left and an orange one to her right. She might think those doors lead to freedom, but she’d be mistaken. Try it, I dare you – prematurely poke your head outside – your mind will be spaghetti in three milliseconds.
I stand up straight, holding my cane in both hands.
“Little girl, do you remember what you were doing before you woke up here?”
“I was in the front garden playing. Playing with my new Polly Pocket. Then everything went white.”
“Did you get that for your birthday? The Polly Pocket?”
“Yes.”
She’s clearly frightened.
Sometimes the ‘showman’ routine works, sometimes it doesn’t.
I walk around the lectern until I’m standing in front of her.
Then I kneel down, speaking quieter.
“Don’t be frightened,” I tell her. “Nothing will hurt you here.”
It’s true. The last thing I want is for any harm to come to her.
“Mummy will wonder where I am. She’ll be frightened.”
“Your mummy doesn’t know you’re gone, I promise. Once we’re done here, you can go back home and you won’t even remember you were here, okay?”
“What do I have to do?”
I hold her hand.
“Tell me – what else did you get for your birthday?”
“Lego, pens, pogs, and a new bike.”
“A new bike? Wow. What colour?”
“Yellow.”
“Sounds like a good bike.”
“It is – I love it.”
“Do you have any pets?”
“A hamster and a cat.”
“What’s the cat called?”
“Mikey.”
“Great name.”
“Thank you.”
I stand up.
“I need you to do something for me,” I say.
“What is it?”
“I need you to choose.”
“Choose?”
“Everyone has to choose.”
“Choose what?” she says.
“Well, when you go back home, back in your front garden with your Polly Pocket, a red car is going to screech around the corner. Now – either your new yellow bike rolls down the driveway and gets crushed – or little Mikey can get squished instead. It’s up to you.”
The girl looks at me, angry, tears starting to glaze her green eyes.
“Why would you do that?”
“No, no – it’s not me. It’s a stranger driving the car.”
“But you’re telling the stranger to do it.”
“No. It’s just bad luck, that’s all.”
“Then how do you know what will happen? Why are you making me choose?”
“I don’t invent the choice. Between you and me – this is my least favourite part of the job.”
“But why is it me? On my birthday?”
“Everyone makes their choices. Your mummy. Your daddy. Everyone – every five years – they come here, they make their decision, and then they leave. So I do need you to choose, little girl. But you can take as long as you need.”
“You’re a horrible person.”
“Hey, come on. Bad things happen, don’t they? I’m just giving you a choice of which bad thing it is today. That’s better, right?”
The girl wipes her tears on her cuff.
“Want a tissue?”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t even know if we have any, to be honest.” I walk back around to the lectern and inspect the little shelf. “Got some Polos. Couple of pens. Cigarettes – do you smoke?”
She shakes her head again and I grip my cane.
I adorn my showman voice once more.
“Well – do you have an answer for me, little girl? Crushy bikey or squishy Mikey?”
She looks at her shoes, then back at me.
She’s stopped crying.
“I really won’t remember coming here?” she says.
“Nope.”
“Do you promise?”
“No one remembers,” I say. “It’ll be like you were never here.”
“Then I choose my bike.”
“Your bike to get crushed?”
“My bike to keep.”
“Squash Mikey. Are you sure?”
The little girl nods.
“If my bike gets ruined, Mummy will be really angry. But if Mikey runs in the road, it isn’t my fault.”
“Okay, well if you’re sure.”
“I am.”
“In that case, I need you to step through that orange door on your right. I’m sorry it had to happen on your birthday – that’s just the way things worked out. Try to enjoy the rest of your day. See you in half a decade.”
The girl stands up. She walks to the orange plywood door.
Then she turns back to me.
“Get a better job,” she says.
And she’s gone.
Maybe you think I’m heartless. But after a couple of thousand years, you learn that the chambers are a beautiful thing. You realise there’s a difference between an option and a choice.
The Choice is yours.
The Options are inevitable.
