The Door

He looked at the doorway. It was shut, and the frame had held sturdy despite the poor condition of the door itself. Cracks ran up and down the solid wood where an axe had been taken to a material, but the door showed no signs of giving way under the force he had applied to it over the last two months.

He recalled being inside the room behind the door. He knew the smells and the tastes and the sounds, he knew and remembered the unpleasant things found behind the door clearly, sometimes more clearly than the things that gave him joy to think about. But over time the memories of the good and the bad had become garbled and mixed into a muck of something bittersweet, something that if you dared put to your lips must taste like remorse and regret, something you could only keep in your mouth momentarily before you either had to spit it out our swallow it whole. Every night he ate of the muck and spit out or swallowed as he could, depending on the day. What was swallowed was washed down with tears.

Every so often he found himself able to walk away from the door. Each night he lay in a corner not too far off from where it was, took as he was told from two jars and lay down to sleep, being able to think of other doors and other memories or nothing at all for a short while. He often dreamt of the door and what was behind it, and then woke up in a haze, feeling called back to stand and stare at it.

No amount of pounding, screaming, or begging, or crying would open the door. A hurtful and powerful axe could not even crack through the wood of the door to the other side where the room was found. Small notes slipped under it did nothing, and he wondered if he had perhaps written them incorrectly, or if perhaps his other attempts involving more force had undermined his more meek and apologetic attempts. He became confused, and would have moments of regretting everything and giving up, leaving the door for a time.

He missed what was behind that worn out door, but didn't even understand what he wanted from the door being opened again. Something had changed, something had broken, something had been left unresolved by the shutting of the door. Some amount of insanity was found outside the door where he was all by himself and alone. He turned to problems, inadequacies, and worries for comfort and solace.

Instead of looking away from the door he found himself only able to look inward for the items he had left in the room behind the door, or any other rooms behind many other doors. He found nothing.

He knew his life would go on and would soon be farther from the door physically, but wondered how often he would think of it, how often it would trouble his heart, knowing that the shut door existed somewhere. He wondered how often he would remember who shut the door.

He had shut it. He had slammed it repeatedly until the frame could not bear the pressure anymore. The person inside the door saw this and quickly allowed the door to be shut. And kept it shut.

It might not be a mystery why the door is shut to any other person who wanders upon him, standing in front of the doorway. But it remains a mystery to him, himself.

He decided to at least not be angry and to just stand by the door. To make some sort of good gesture, even though he feared all of his misaligned strategies from the previous months would be remembered with clarity.

Every so often, with his ear pressed against the wood, faint noises were heard. Not loud enough to understand or interpret, the noises gave only anger instead of comfort. With each whisper heard behind the door he was torn between running or staying and pounding even louder than before.

He wanted to slip another small note under the door, reading something like "I'll be waiting".
He wanted to just knock on the door, but he is afraid.

He is afraid, and still hurt, and still tries not to be angry, though unsuccessfully. He still is these things, and he still takes as he's told from the two jars, and he is still waiting.

Waiting in front of the door.