Welcome, Don't be Afraid

Written by Emma Burnett / Artwork by Marge Simon

“Welcome. Don’t be afraid. Please, come and have a cup of tea.”

I gesture towards the sofa and the tea set, laid out on the low table.

The blood on his face disappears as he steps further into my room. The hole in his head mends as he sits on my sofa, the socket filled by a dark eye. The fear and pain tightening the lines around his mouth fade as he sips.

When the cup is empty, he nods thanks, stands, and walks to the door behind me.

The light from the open door throws my shadow across the table, and then it is gone.

The cup is empty. The teapot refills.

~ * ~

“Welcome. Don’t be afraid. Please, come and have a cup of tea.”

She drags herself towards me, legless, leaving a trail of gore as she makes her way to the rug in front of the sofa and collapses. I hold the cup to her lips and she sips. Her body regrows, reforms, becomes perfect.

She touches my hand briefly. Then she does a satisfying-looking full body stretch, and walks to the door. She disappears.

Like a yawn, her movement is contagious. I do a quick stretch, too, before the next person arrives. It feels good.

~ * ~

“Welcome. Don’t be afraid. Please, come and have a cup of tea.”

Their fingers twitch nervously against the trigger of a gun that is no longer in their hand, the weapon they had clutched tightly, but which couldn’t protect them from the enveloping gas that flowed into their lungs and stopped their breathing.

They sit for a long time, sipping tea, breathing deeply. Here, in this place beyond air, we take long slow breaths together, in and out, in and out.

There is an acrid scent that lingers after they have departed through the door. But it is gone by the time I say, “Welcome.”

~ * ~

“Welcome. Don’t be afraid. Please, come and have a cup of tea.”

They are children and they come together. Two peas in a pod, twins. It is rare, but not unheard of.

I course correct. “Have some hot chocolate.”

Now there are two small mugs, still patterned in gold and delicate flowers, and the children slurp noisily. The repairs to their little bodies happen quickly, because children are resilient, and because no one, not even the grumpiest of gods, wants babies to hurt.

I smile at them, and they giggle, and I guide them to the door. They hold hands, and the braver one reaches up to turn the knob. I turn away as the door swings open.

~ * ~

“Welcome. Don’t be afraid. Please, come and have a cup of tea.”

He is afraid, though. Lots of people are. To be fair, they only just died.

He stands still, unsure what to do. I guide him towards the sofa, a gentle hand on his back, soft words of encouragement nudging him onwards. The shards of glass fall out of cuts in his skin as he staggers, wild-eyed and panting, but he lets himself be guided. 

The cuts heal as he gulps from the softly steaming teacup, always the right temperature, just warm enough, never too hot. The glass disappears, and so do the tears leaking from his eyes, and the fear he brought into the room with him. All four things are gone by the time he is.

~ * ~

“Welcome. Don’t be afraid. Please, come and have a cup of tea.”

She enters. There is blood on her chest and hands. And below that, a wound, deep inside and unhealed.

She walks towards me, masks the injuries. The ones on the outside are invisible by the time she sits on the sofa. She stares at the cup. She touches the rim.

I wait.

“Aren’t you going to have some, too?” she asks.

Sometimes people talk to me, but mostly they don’t. I sit, and they sip, and they move on.

I shake my head.

She doesn’t sip.

“Why not?”

I consider telling a lie, but I think the truth might be more motivational. “I am not here to forget. I am here to atone.”

She glances up from the cup, stares at my face. “Why?”

“For the things I did. The people I hurt. I refused the tea.”

“If I drink this,” she gestures at the still-steaming liquid, forever the perfect temperature, “what happens?”

I wave a hand. “You are free of your burdens. You walk through that door, and you move on to eternity and, and…stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? I’ve never been through it.”

She smiles. Her smile is radiant. She smiles over the deep hurts, still there beneath the layers of her perfect body.

My heart breaks for her.

“You should drink the tea,” I say, softly. “Go through the door.”

She fiddles again with the cup.

I feel impatient. Her pain feels too familiar. I want her to leave. 

“You’re wasting my time,” I say. “There are others waiting.”

She nods. “Sorry.”

But she doesn’t sip.

“Is there another door? One that takes you to the bad things you deserve? A punishment door?”

“What, like hell?” I shake my head. “No. That would be incredibly unfair. One life of medium choices doesn’t mean someone deserves an eternity of pain.”

“So…why are you here, then?” 

I have no answer. Deep in my heart, deep in the past, I know I was worse than medium.

“I’m sure you deserve peace and eternity and stuff as much as I do. More, maybe.”

I want to tell her she is being a pushy cow. I want to tell her how much I miss pushy cows. How much I miss everyone from my past who drank the tea and went through the door. Instead, I say, “You don’t know what I did.”

There is a pause. Then, “You don’t know what I did.”

We both stare at the teacup. A second one appears, but it isn’t me who conjured it up.

She nudges the cup towards me.

“Don’t be afraid.”