- Books, Literature, and Writing
Im still working on this. But i trust you guys. Let me know what you think, and give me some feed back. I started this maybe last November, and i just picked it up again with the intention of finally finishing it. Ive gone back to it a million times to try and reconnect with what i had already written, but as you all know, I have as of late been incresingly inspired. Im pretty much only worried about the ending. I dont know, let me know. Nathen...show yourself and tell me what you think.
She rushed up the hallway with haste. Almost breathless. Her hand reached for the doornob. Her apartment would be uncomfortably warm. Not that that was a surprise, because she always had the thermostat turned up to 75. Probably would have turned it up higher if she could. Was it behind her? Now her focus was not on the danger that drew closer and closer to her as she ran, but the danger that now possibly waited on the other side of the door. The door was the enemy now. The frige was there, the tv was there….but the door… the door was really there. The door was so there that she couldn’t stop looking at it, even though the mantra playing over and over in her mind stated “don’t look at the door.” She bit her nails, plucked her eyebrows, picked at her face, all of her little copeing mechanisms at play to distract her. What now? Eat? No. even though she hadn’t eaten since yesterday, eating was out of the question. How can people eat when they are nervous? She often questioned this silently when she herself was nervous. With all of the churning of a stomach, who would want food in them? The worst time in her life, was also the thinnest she ever was. Which truthfully, had been a comfort to her. Living basiccally with strangers, in and out of hotel rooms but look at my flat stomach in that cracked gaudy ceiling morror. Why do they put mirrors on the ceiling in cheap motel rooms? Is nothing sexier than ciggarett burns on a dirty microwave next to the bed, and a mirror on the ceiling, she asked herself ironically. Maybe it was there so you can take a look at your life and how shitty it really had become. She remembered her time in that room and how embarassed she was that the cleaning crew was going to come in and empty the alchohol bottles out of the trash that the man she was with had money to buy, yet they were in a motel room. Another glance at the door. Like the fear was just going to take shape and bash through, ending her. Afraid to take a shower because…who would watch the door? Feeling and not feeling at the same time that she had a borderline panic disorder, she decided to get clean. The fear wasn’t going anywhere no matter how long she sat on the end of the couch so up she got and into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, she was dressed and walking carefully out to the living room half expecting something unexpected. Her head pounded. Smoked to much today she said outloud, maybe just to hear her own voice as she lit another cigarette. She wanted not to be alone yet did not want the complication that comes with having someone there. Pressure. It was pressure that she ruled out of her life. When she told the pressure to fuck off, it took any normalcy she had left in her life with it, and gave her the finger. For days now she had longed for real warmth. Longed to open the windows and wear a tank top and just smell spring. Feel a breeze across her back. Warmth was something that grounded her. Made her feel part of the earth. Made her feel like wherever she was she was still “in it”. Finally her thoughts escaped her and she laid down on the couch distracting herself with reality TV. Very aware of the window above her head and the door across the room she closed her eyes in exhaustion, and chanced sleep.
When she awoke the feeling came back. Its almost as if she was never alone. Trapped inside her own little hell that she herself had created. No one could ever understand what was going on. She didn’t feel crazy, although everything about the situation pointed to the fact that she was. She hadn’t felt more alone in her life than right before she had met HIM. And then he was gone. The sex had changed everything. All of a sudden there were lies where there never were before.
She would lie next to him after, wishing that she could just disappear. He kind of made her feel that way sometimes. Like he had what he needed and that now, instead of feeding off of her, she would become just another burden. A left over pizza crust. She had really thought it would be different. Because he was different. WAS being the operative word.
He didn’t see her anymore. He would look at her, but never really saw her. And then to top it all off, he told her she was being crazy, and that he couldn’t take it anymore. After all of that he ended up being the one leaving.
And after he left…there was the door. The door was there reminding her of his final exit. The door was there leaving an open invitation for anyone that she let in, to walk right back out again.
Take what you want and leave
Take all that’s left inside of me
I wont fight
I wont scream
As long as while your taking it
Your touching me
She repeated this over and over in her mind as she stared at the door.
Memories rushed over her, and she was physically exhausted from their strength. Him leaving. The way his jeans looked as he walked through the door and left her behind.
He had said hed never leave her
He had told her that she would never be alone again.
Like the age old story, the man leaves for a carton of milk, and is never seen again. But instead of going out for a pack of Marlboros, he shoved her onto the floor saying sarcastically “get well soon” laughed, and slammed the door behind him.
She thought about all of the doors in her life. She marveled at how we can be surrounded by doors everywhere we go, and walk through them without appreciating the seriousness of what they represent. The best and worst moments of our lives begin and end with a door.
The door was there. The rage boiled inside of her.
She imagined herself ripping the door off of its hinges and setting it on fire. Cause it as much pain as the thousands of doors in her life had caused her. But it was no use. The door couldn’t feel pain. The door was a huge cold unfeeling monster that tipped its hat to the many who have come and gone. To the many who have left never to return.
Imagine for a moment, a world without doors. A world where people moved freely in and out of each others lives without shutting you out behind them. No slamming of doors during a fight. No locked doors that hide secrets and suicides.
When she was a little girl, doors helped her father hide their secret.
When she was in college, a door stopped anyone from truly knowing what Billy had taken from her.
She paced now.
Insane with the idea of eliminating the door, screams escaped her throat.
Screams that were liberating and far overdue. She ripped at her hair, and punched through the glass coffee table cutting her hand so badly that she hoped the bleeding would never stop.
And then she remembered.
A casket, would be the final door.
She raced to the phone and dialed 911, not having anyone else to call for help. All because of fucking doors.
The ambulance came, and after what seemed like really too long of an assessment, she was carried out on a bed like stretcher. She counted the doors as they transported her through the building to the ambulance outside. All the while listening to the medical transporters talk in a whispered hush amongst each other. Words like help, episode, and evaluation.
They lifted her up asking her questions all the way. Funny questions, like does she live alone, and what had she eaten for dinner.
And then they shut her in and began the journey to the hospital. She stared in anger at what stood 2 feet from the edge of the stretcher, filled with rage, but somehow smiling. “Great.” She thought “ANOTHER FUCKING DOOR.”