Behind Closed Doors

Ten years, I've lived in this house with my parents. I've been allowed to roam the entire house, explore every speck, tile, and corner of every room. I know the exact layout of every room, closet, and bathroom, down to the furniture.

Except for one. A wooden door, exactly the same as the other ones. Painted snow white, with a glossy finish. Cold and smooth to the touch, like a silk curtain. A brass, round doorknob with a small keyhole. Father says to never open it under any circumstances.

But you know... there's nothing as tempting as a locked door.

Standing, at the end of the hallway, closed shut like a vault, she opens only for my father, long after the last rays of sun have slipped beneath the horizon. Occasionally, when he's away, I sit in front of her, observing her. Deathly silent she remains, and yet I listen closely, pressing my ear against her cold surface as if searching for a whisper, a heartbeat. I would run my hand down her soft, painted skin, coaxing her into reveal her secrets. But she remains stoic. Like a rock.

The allure is maddening. Every passing hour, the mysteries pile higher and higher. First a molehill, then a mountain range, the temptation grows larger and larger until one day I can't take it. I snap.

I. Have. To know. 

So one night, I wait. I lie in my bed. Eyes closed, I listen, like a bat, until I hear the echoing footsteps of my father walking in the dead of night, the footsteps growing fainter and fainter as he stepped further and further from my room.

A click, as the lock disengages from the front door.

A squeak. The rusted hinges cried in pain as their old metal parts slid and scraped on each other, pulling the door open against their will. 

Another click, the hinges sighed in relief as the door shut and the locks reengaged. 

And he was outside. 

His precious door was defenseless.

I rose. Slowly, I snuck through my home and made my way to the abyssal, welcoming hallway where the door sat patiently. Waiting. Teasing. Seducing.

Like a bee drawn to the hypnotic appeal of a red, red rose, I made my way to the door. 

I touched the metal doorknob. I gripped it with my palm and she injected her deathly cold into my veins and I shivered, half from the icy brass, half from anticipation.

I turned the doorknob.

She wouldn't budge. 

No. 

Not now. 

I've come so close.

Another twist, but harder. A hapless rattle as the lock held its ground. Yet another twist. 

The door laughed at me. She mocked my failure.

"Just fucking open, damn it, WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME!"

A deafening smash. The doorknob shattered and the lock disengaged. This was it.

My blood rushed through my veins and my heart pumped at a million miles an hour as once more, I ran my fingers through her skin and she shivered, scared, reluctant to show me what she hid, what secrets she kept inside. Reluctant, but the choice was not hers to make.

I opened the door.




Author's Note: I lied. Bam, new story.

A much shorter story than usual, I apologize. I've been really stressed out over studying for the AP World History test, so I haven't had as much time to write as I'd like. But you probably already know that from the update I posted yesterday.

I know, I said I would delay it, and I was half telling the truth. This was actually a writing piece I wrote for my school's Creative Writing Club in the beginning of the school year that I polished up specifically to post here (psst, my school's Creative Writing Club has a blogspot too! It's kind of empty right now, but not for long hopefully). The prompt was to write a story starting with "There's nothing more tempting than a locked door," and we had just talked about indeterminate endings in English, so my brain blended the two and bam, this came out.

I was pretty proud of being able to write this in less than 15 minutes.