My Door

I stir and something clamps open my eyelids, pouring unsolicited lamp light into my tired scleras.

My surroundings come into focus: 

Three beige walls mere feet apart and a wooden door with chipping white paint (which has never been opened)

One covered with scribbled notes

Another lined with dusted shelves, upon which sit grimy metal serving trays 

A third, my back turned to it, stale sheets and an exhausted pillow at its feet

And my door, the symbol of my confinement, but the only way by which I have contact with those beyond it (the crack between the bottom of the door and the sweaty tile ground is how I’ve ever gotten those notes hanging on the wall to my left, and is the only way I send out my tray twice a day to remind whoever lays beyond the door that I am still alive).

As I situate myself and ruffle up my hair, even though I haven’t seen it for fifteen years, a beast grumbles within me, demanding a bite to eat

I grab a tray, my hand settling in something gray and smelling of pork fat and vomit, and push it through the crack 

A silhouette and dark dress shoes march towards it, each step a bullet in the musty ecosystem of sound.

SPLASH! CLOMP! 

The tray runs back under the door, wobbling from the contents it carries on its head

“What do I have today?” I question, trying to draw excitement in the mundane

There sits a pile of neon-green mush  

“Insensitivity”, I mutter

And a yellow liquid, looking much like broken salad dressing

“Anxiety”, I say.

I slurp down the quotidian meal and feel the prosperity drain from me like water from broken pipes.

Hours have passed, spent by drawing in the dust on the tile floor,

Until a crumbled and stained piece of paper slices through the crack under my door.

I pick it up, and, in the same glittering black ink and shorthand, read

Whatever is undone is what confines you. The way to eat new meals is to prevent someone from serving them to you.

Signed, a mysterious pair of initials, HM.

I spear the note to my wall with a bobby pin that was dropped in front of my door. On it were about 30 other notes, all signed with different initials

BF, AL, BG, to name a few.

I ponder over the curious note, and look to the gleaming silver doorknob above me.

I have always felt a curiosity as to what would happen if I turned it,

But refrained from getting nearer beyond 6 inches, my breakfast telling me that it will burn my skin.

But the note continued to pulse through my head

Whatever is undone is what confines you. 

Impulsively, I stood up, my lead-like legs shaking from a lack of use and a history of being crushed against drywall.

I reach out my hand and grasp the knob with my eyes closed.

Nothing happens.

I begin to turn the metal, and hear a KLINK.

Now is the time. The door had always been unlocked. I search for the courage within me to push it open.

With all of my emotion, I push open the wooden slab

And step out, putting my bare foot onto the cold ground in front of me.

I look up to see an army of people, guns in their hands, prepared to shoot bullets of malice my way,

But nothing can puncture my shield of pride.