Practice Writing: The Door

He never went to see therapists. If he bothered to then he’ll be having more problems, he thinks. He’ll pay them, and then they’ll help him, and then he’d have no more cash in his wallet, and then he’ll have to get some from his ATM, and then he’ll have no more money in his bank account, and then he’ll end up poor, and then he’ll probably end up dying of starvation.

And he can’t have that, now, can he?

***

It started when he saw the door. That door. That

majestic, pristine white door. Heavy-looking; he may not be able to open it. But in time he’ll be able to, and he’ll see what’s on the other side, and find everything he was looking for and more. And then he'll prove everybody wrong.

plain wooden door of the simple house located at the end of the street. It was like the house where the door leads. He so wanted to buy that house; it was cozy, and he’ll be able to get some peace and quiet

because it’s not like he has any friends to entertain. Nobody wants to talk to him. They don’t find the door interesting. But it is interesting, he insisted to his sister once. Look at the patterns, so elaborate and befitting that huge door. And his sister had never looked so confused. What door?

because not many people live there. Not many cars pass by. He’d be able to do the work he hasn’t finished at the office here in the house. He'd live on the first floor while his sister lives upstairs. The house, small, minimalist, comfortable... it was perfect.

***

He's an artist. A good one. At least that's what he thinks. Thought.

If he was such a good artist then why

doesn't he have a wider and more active imagination? Why is it that when he turns his head in one direction he sees that magnificent door? Never anything more, just that door. Not where it leads to, not even where it's connected. It's just standing there, begging to be opened.

did he just get fired? Keep in mind he's a freelancer, so why...?

***

His sister has a job. A business, actually. Some of his works are displayed at her store.

They were practically a decade apart, and by the time he was in high school, she was already working, living in her own apartment, and making occasional visits to their household. They live together now, since

mommy decided she can't have daddy always smiling at and texting and calling other girls, and have him say their names in his sleep. And daddy can't have mommy playing cards with their neighbors, drinking alcohol and smoking something that is probably not tobacco. And so they stuggled. Struggled in the kitchen.

The knife fell down beside a rather intricate door he's only ever noticed now.

it's more practical that way. Besides, they're family. They're supposed to live together.

***

He never went to see therapists. He knows he probably should, since right now he has no job, his sister is worried about him, nobody wants to talk to him,

and that door still won't open. Why won't it open? He tried to go around it, see if he can open it from the other side. But there is no other side! There won't be until it's opened. So open already! Open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open mommy daddy who stabbed who open open open open sister will you save me open open open open boss my work is done is it sub-par open open open

and he thinks he never got over what happened in the kitchen. Maybe. His sister seems okay. She's sort of over it. He probably is, too.

So there's no need for therapists, then.

***

He stopped.

He stopped looking for work. Stopped talking to his sister about what-have-you. Stopped talking at all it's not like anyone listens. The people who are going to listen are probably beyond that door Stopped leaving the house for fresh air. Stopped leaving his room.

***

He lies.

Lies to his sister about being okay because he's not. The door still won't open and his arms ache from pulling at it and his fingers are actually bleeding. Lies to himself about being able to find a job.

He lies on the bed, spending all his time plotting on how to open that damn door.

He's stopped eating, and stopped going out of his room by the way.

***

His sister begs him to eat. Begs him to open his bedroom door. Begs him to get rid of whatever was barricading his room.

He doesn't listen. All he can hear are his own knocks on that white door.

***

It's inside him, he realizes. The key. It's inside him.

He can't open the door unless he opens himself.

So he will.

He remembers that his parents were open on the kitchen floor. Maybe they saw the door after all.

***

He can't open himself that way, he realized. It's painful and messy, apparently.

***

He stopped again.

He stopped knocking on the door. Stopped ignoring his sister.

And he started. Started to talk, talk about their old kitchen, talk about the knife, talk about his old job. Talk about the majestic door.

***

creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak

No matter how beautiful a door looks, they always make the same creaking sounds when opened, don't they?

He finds it annoying.

SLAM!