Out Of Defined Service

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Flash Fiction February Day 21”.

As if hospital appointments aren’t stressful enough! Perhaps that’s it; perhaps the fear of being late, and stress of finding my way in this Victorian labyrinth, have driven me to a nervous collapse and I’m hallucinating. Well, a hospital hallway is surely one of the best places to have such an episode, so hopefully I’ll be alright.
The… lucidity of my thoughts makes me doubt that I’m actually hallucinating. But, well, how else can I explain my surroundings? While at first I assumed I’d wandered through a “staff only” door without realising, what with there being no signs, turning back just led to more hallways. Endless branching windowless doorless hallways.
Sterile grey laminate, probably older than me, squeaks unpleasantly under my sneakers. Painted pipes and cabling snake across the walls and occasionally the ceiling, like vines adapted to this clinical environment.
“Hello?”
Despite the smooth surfaces surrounding me, there’s no echo. None at all. Not even the squeaks reverberate. The air simply swallows all sound. I can hear my own heartbeat throbbing frantic in my ears.
Alright. So. Since I’m definitely losing my mind, I should probably, probably lie down, right? Just in case I am walking around while hallucinating. I might hurt myself. Better to be laying down. Anyone who sees someone laying down in a hospital hallway will assume a medical emergency, right?
But some instinct drives me on, down another hallway and choosing another turn, restless panicked energy which won’t listen to reason fuelling my motion.
Until I see the phone.
Nothing about it stood out, exactly. Dingy off-white plastic, old-fashioned handset with a curly cable connecting it to its home. The kind I’d only seen in old TV shows, which felt about right for the rest of this place. It was just the only feature I’d seen the entire time.
I snatch the handset and hold it to my ear. A dial tone! I quickly type in 9-9-9. Bracing myself to explain to some poor operator how I was reporting myself hallucinating.
Instead a clearly recorded voice clip informs me “that number cannot be reached”.
What? Oh god, the phone must be broken! Just my luck!!
But with my situation being so dire, I inspect the phone more closely rather than shrugging and moving on. And spot, above the keypad, a sticker reading “For assistance dial 9-1-5.”
So I do. Holding my breath, toes crossed so tight they hurt, desperately praying that-
“Luminal assistance department, how can I help you?”
I let my breath out in a huff and stammer “I-I’m lost in the hospital and I can’t find any doors and I’m late for my appointment and I’m so sorry-”
“Right.” Their professional, nonchalant tone makes me itch to send their teeth down their throat. “Can you describe the door you entered this liminal space through?”
“What?”
“The last door you used.” They say, slower and faintly pitying.
“I… I don’t know.” I mumble. “I, um, I was on my way to radiography?”
“…Which hospital?”
“St Lewis. Berkshire.”
“Just a moment.”
I can hear distant typing and pensive, atonal humming. Then they announce “Ah, I think I’ve located the Undefined door.”
“Undefined…?”
“Yes, keeping two spaces connected and synced is a tricky art. Sometimes doors lose track. Normally not a problem, since most people who walk through a door have a clear expectation of what they’ll find, so just end up where they expected. But if someone uses a currently Undefined door without a concrete destination in mind, they end up in Undefined space.”
I look around at the endless, soulless facade of a hospital. Undefined, huh?
“Now then. Behind you, you’ll find a door which looks exactly like the one you walked through to get here.”
Despite having just looked around and not seen anything of the sort I spin and sure enough find a door.
Before I can gawp, let alone start moving, they sternly say “Listen fully before going through!”
“Right.” I stammer. Keeping my eyes fixed on the door.
“When you go through, you’ll end up back wherever you were, when you left the Defined Universe. Close the door behind you. IMMEDIATELY. Is that clear?”
My head bobs in a pointless earnest nod. “Walk through, close door behind me.”
“Good. Happy to help. Try and pay more attention in future, eh? Off you go.”
“Thank you so much goodbye!” I fumble the handset back onto its cradle, still not taking my eyes off the door in case it vanishes like it arrived, and lunge to grab the handle.
It swings open easily, and I find myself in a normal hospital corridor. One where there’s windows and posters, where the paint has minor colour variations from years of sunlight and damp, where the corners of the floor aren’t quite clean - and where there’s other people, one of whom is about to walk past me!
Hastily I slam the door. Right in front of them.
We stare at each other.
Oh god this is so awkward what should I say??
I can’t think of anything, but the silence is painful, so I stammer out “I-I can’t explain why I did that without sounding crazy, so, um, sorry.”
To my profound relief they give a perplexed smile and kindly assure me “Oh, it’s fine. One of my cousins has OCD, so I… well, I don’t get it, but…”
I smile back and nod and gingerly open the door to peer through.
It’s still a hallway… but now the door’s facing down it, not across it. And I see posters and other doors and in a million small ways the place feels real. So I step away and let the person walk through.
“H-have a nice day!”
“You too!”
I check my phone. Oof, I’m horribly late. I hope they accept “sorry I got lost”.
I’ll just have to walk fast - while stopping to check all doors before going through them. I suspect I’ll be doing that for the rest of my life.

Prompt was “You find yourself in a strange place. A place between places. Liminal space often intrigues, confuses, or terrifies us.”