A Key

 

 Sunlight setting in the distance filtered bruised purple half-light through the alleys of glass and metal past the curtains, coming to rest in a puddle on my floor surrounded by shadows.  I stared at it a moment, trying to reconcile it there—the coffee stain that keeps rising to the surface after three cleanings, the cigarette burn from when I fell asleep, a low spotlight of dieing sunlight—but it was no use.  I kept coming round to the same old dusty thoughts and then the muttering repetition of some phrase of music that pops up in my head when the dust begins to blow away.  If only the song would play all the way through.  Maybe then I could concentrate.

On what?  And for that matter, to what purpose?  I took another stupid look around.  The lessening of that spot of light on the floor as the horizon ate the sun.  The framed posters on the walls instead of photographs.  The same old furniture slouching, despondent, in the middle of the room.  I wished I could find the door but I buried it long ago behind the idea of getting through this life unscathed.  Was I unscathed?  Even my belongings suffered depression.

That was the moment (a brief one, interrupted by terse, lyricless snatches of some old song) when I realized I had locked myself in and the key, though thrown away, had to be near, because I never went anywhere else.  I felt my hands over my face and realized I was crying.  What key?  There is no key.  What’s a key?

I gave up.  I stopped looking.

And out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the bare suggestion of a shape.  The music in my head stopped, replaced by the screaming silence of my own blood thrusting through my veins.  I turned in the direction of the shape and saw only the usual shadows grown thicker in the dieing of the light.  Over there was a kitchen with three walls, its bare face glaring back at me from over an old wooden table and chair, and beyond that the myth of the outside world, but nothing else.

There, just there!  I turned to look it full in the face and it flew from me again.  I stood, joints groaning in protest, the noise of my pulse replaced by the incessant beating of my heart.  My breath caught on old splinters and snagged in my throat.  A shape, a something…new…eluded me. Moving slowly toward the kitchen I surveyed the walls as though I had never seen them before.  Cream painted walls slightly more yellow with nicotine, finger tip stains smeared where one passes through into the kitchen by the light switch…nothing new.  The cabinets hung desultorily as they always had—how did I get ketchup all the way up there?  Linoleum failed to shine beneath my steps.  The same, all the same.

And it was there again, in my peripheral vision.

I stood still, stock still, and let it stay at the edge of my sight.  I experimented with comparing the vague shape to known shapes—lines, square, too long…rectangle—and tried to breathe.  There was a chill ache in my fingertips and I felt suddenly something of substance there were I held nothing.  Unable to stop myself I looked down.

I held a key in my hand.

Beside me, where it had always been, was a scabbed hollow wooden door with a perfectly clean knob.

Music played through my head.  I only got so far as to think, “I can go…”  My pulse beat harder and my breathing snagged again.  What use is this door to me?  What could possibly be out there but pain?  Here, in this place I am alone.  But out there…out there I am armored only in my skin and skin won’t turn the arrows of hate, of deceit and lies and broken trust.  In here, I am safe.

Safe to claw these walls, day in and day out, claustrophobic in my early crypt, capable of feeling with nothing to feel but my own fears winning…winning out with every moment I spend behind these walls.  Safe to die the death of stagnation while still conscious of my decay and the stench of my own atrophy plugging my nose.  I can smoke another cigarette and another and another and watch the smoke dancing on what shafts of sunlight can break through my barriers of gloom and…

Or I can pass through that door and fall in love.  I could feel that way again.  The way I felt when he touched me, when he looked me in the eye and said, “I love you.”  The way I felt when I checked the closet to find all of his things missing.

Before me, a wall.  My empty hands rubbed together, a song of dry skin like crickets singing.  What key?  What’s a key?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

I just wrote this and have not had the chance to proofread for spelling, grammer, etc so any help there is appreciated.

Reviews

[Tony Reichstadt]

I LOVE your imagery and the distinct sense of a very specific isolation.

Quick proofread: Although I love long, image heavy sentences, they can be difficult to follow. The opening sentence is gorgeous, but there are a lot of images contained in one thought. What am I trying to say? I get it, but I think others might not.

dieing = dying

"The framed posters on the walls instead of photographs." is a fragment.

Sorry, I know you asked for a proofread, but it always makes me feel guilty because I know I do some of the same things. :P

As a whole, it's an excellent piece. With some editing/cleaning up, it would be excellent-er. :D

[yinseriv]

I can't help with the spelling or grammer; sorry; I was enthralled by the story. Great visuals. I really felt the sense of desperation and defeat. "Even my belongings suffered depression." Fantastic.