One Page - Stan

Stan had been searching for quite a while for a very specific type of townhouse in Mississauga. It had to be in Creditdale, 1200 to 1400 square feet, two stories, and no basement. His real estate agent, Trevlon, had been pulling out his hair plugs looking and looking for a house like this and mysteriously one came available. One not in his database, it was sketched out on a paper on his desk, but in Stan’s price range. Tuesday at 2 p.m. they went to look at this vacant oddity - key in hand.

They did the usual outside and inside check and were about to leave when Stan exclaimed “What’s this?” Trevlon turned around and said “What” “This short door under the stairs.” They both looked. “It wasn’t there yesterday” puzzled the real estate agent. “I’m going to look inside” Stan quietly said as he gently pulled at the brass latch.

Inch by inch he pulled at the door. It was dimly lit inside and the smell of peach and ginger danced out into the echoing living room. Stan grew bolder until the door stood fully open. The first thing he saw was a small closet warm and inviting. There was a hum from a bare 25 watt light bulb screwed into the ceiling and comforting air was wafting through a vent in the wall. The air tasted stale. Stan entered, bending over, and tentatively touched the flocked red paisley wall paper “Ouch” he had received a mild shock up into his arm.

Trevlon hung back as if the room contained strange voodoo. Eventually he made his way to his car in a rush as events unfolded. Stan adjusted to the light and saw that in front of him against the far wall was a little square stool with something like a shrivelled fruit nested in a depression era bowl with a tag on it. Being careful to not touch the walls again Stan took a few cautious steps towards the bowl. He turned the tag over and it boldly read “the knowledge of good and evil”. Stan sniffed the fruit. Ahh. Peach and ginger. He poked at it. He put it in his left hand and a voice from the vent whispered “Eat”. Stan looked around, which was rather silly and raised it to his lips. He bit and swallowed. It was caustic. It was bitter. It changed into every drug, hashish, opium, everything at once.

His pupils were belladonna large. He was satiated with knowledge and the weight made him crumple to the rough floor - the middle of the universe of the closet. A word made its way up through his belly until it bellowed out in that tiny room “Sophia” he shouted. “Sophia” he ranted. “Sophia” he cursed. He beat at his chest and the floor. He reached out with both arms and let waves of electricity course through his entirety. Knowledge became too much to bear in quicker increments. He pulsed and quivered.

Stan dragged himself out of the closet with great effort. First an elbow, then a knee, fingertips. It took him as long as it took to create the world to finally escape. Gasping on the carpet knowledge started to spill out of him and take on a life of it own in ghastly shades of beautiful colour. It was like a crescendo too great to sustain. He was spent. In one last act of desperation, Stan managed to reach his lighter and burn the word “no” into the door as the colours over took him. Stealing his breath. Stealing his essence. Stealing his life.