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The Door

The air is thin and cold, but at the same time thick and overbearing. The walls are all different shades of uneasiness. The mirror on the dresser is reflecting an image I don't want to see, can't bear to see. The carpet beneath my feet feels like cement, I'm standing in front of the door, but something is preventing me from opening it, like a warning that what lies on the other side to be feared much more than this dark room. I hear nothing except my shallow breathing, each breath like a forced knife to the chest. I taste the bittersweet fear of the unknown, I'm scared. The doorknob seems out of place, gleaming somehow through the thick veil of night. I want to feel the cold metal beneath my fingers, I need to. I approach the door cautiously, hesitant at this strange attraction. I am there. I reach my hand out, and enclose the doorknob in my sweaty palm. It is not cold, it is hot. It burns, but I cannot let go, I like it. The heat moves through my fingertips to my arms, leaving a tingling sensation in its place. The wave goes through my entire body almost evoking a feeling of nausea. It passes as quickly as it came, now there is nothing. I am on fire, but all around me is frost. I recognize this feeling, I know it, it is my own, from a memory clouding in my brain. I can't find it exactly, but I know it is a memory of need. I had wanted this, whatever it was, to a point that it felt like a necessity to my survival. My heart is cringing, wrenching itself to keep this memory hidden. Then he is there, as clear as if it was my own reflection. He is in my head and I want him, no, I want what he has. Now I am on a bed, its messiness and lack of order a welcome feeling of comfort. My hand is enclosed in his, and his in mine. He is warm, much too warm. It is almost too much for me to hold on to, I want to let go but my heart needs to hold on. I cannot let go, for fear of what lies ahead, for fear of never feeling this warmth again. And suddenly, my lips find his, and it is hard to tell where each of us begins and ends. He wraps me in his warmth and holds me to him, cooing to me in a ragged voice that it will be okay. This is when I notice I am crying. I am crying, and I am still in this room. The doorknob holding steady in my shaking hand. Only now, it is cold, and brings feelings of loss to my heart. I let go, my hand falling to my side, tears sticking to my face. I know it is time, but I cannot do what I know I must. As I realize this, and settle back into my misery, I lie down on the carpet, cold like the snow, I lie down, and I miss him.



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