Stages of Grief: One Hundred and Sixteen

One Hundred and Sixteen

 

These quiet halls are bleak with emptiness.

My footsteps, slow and loud, alert no one.

The door to my room grows taller,

more menacing with each step.

Reluctant hands flip over the keys

searching for number 116.

Building the courage to enter takes

what seems like an hour.

Standing in the fluorescent lighting,

a long corridor turns sharp,

disappearing.

 

Do I have to?

 

Eventually, forcefully, I shove the key inside.

Just two turns left, like a game.

 

One.

A sharp slap of the lock rings in my ears,

my head pangs with my chest.

The door is unlocked.

 

Two.

Slowly, the door knob spins a release.

Shaking hands lose their grip and

silent hinges swing inward towards darkness.

The room is lifeless.

 

He is dead.

 

I am alone.  

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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