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The Man's Fear of Unopened Doors

By ccsailo All Rights Reserved ©

Drama

1

I drew upon the humble earth for a breath which left my nostrils as a distressed wind, turned foggy by the winter cold. The cool force of nature soon morphed to snow, and I, a young man with arrogant eyes, was cold, accompanied only by a dark tinge of loneliness.

Silence stuck to my cold ears like snow to the metal bench I sat upon. In fact, silence was the only force that toppled the brittle winter; but this silence lay oddly. It sang its soundless song in a place where sound lay abundantly on usual occasions: the train station.  

And I sat at the station, then sat some more; the silence, now a brooding entity, began to consume me. I silently begged for a sound, but none rang. I shouted, but it was lost in white. Then, I began to ponder the silence, and as I did my head began to produce undefined darkness; infinite possibilities lay within it, and my mind recklessly raced through this intimidating, unknown space. My past, present and future became a singular hole that I could leap through, a singular oddity that ran like a mad river. My breathing was hard, my face numb, my head pounding. I dropped off the bench in surrender.

Then came a whisper of wind. The steam-filled beat of a train followed, shattering the silence.

  It huffed a mighty huff then screeched, sputtering rapidly to stationary position in which its right side faced the bench and I. My chilled body and mind began to thaw at the metallic chimes of the train, which seemed highly inviting and warm.

   I ,with a keen ear and a half-frozen heart, troubled and cold, walked towards the train and entered. The malice of my head ceased leaking, and reality ensued, overlapping the plodding disintegration of my abundance of horror-like fiction. I think. Or I hope, I think.

The silence concluded its hellish song before it could utterly lead to fiercest force, which lay deeply in my head’s venom. The thought of such a complex force perplexed my assimilating mind, still soggy with fiction, as I sat upon the part of the train’s bench that opposed the entrance and slightly to the right. After some time of being seated, and of unclear thoughts cleansing, the final puzzle piece was placed.

This force ends life; it consumes confidence; it lay within the dark to prey on the weak-minded. It is the beginning, and an intelligent individual (or an ignorant fool for this matter) should know that it will be the end: one’s own thoughts.

  With a swift, violent lurch, the train began to run its course that was laid out since the beginning.

2

 The train knew its course, but I never did.

In the train I sat and reflected upon my day’s series of undesirable events. From this, my face was still moist, eyes strained and glossy; my right hand still swollen on the two largest knuckles; and my heart was filled with self-pity, which I had, quite sadly, convinced myself was uncontrolled, unbiased self-sorrow. What a pitiful sight I was to behold!

So I sat, with nothing to see outside the train's windows but a blanket of snow and its omnipresent guardian: the dark shroud of a starless sky. And nothing to hear but muffled sounds of the train’s engine. After minutes of the gentle calm, filled only by the train’s wondrous, metallic sounds, the gentle pops and groans of the engine began to take a tiring toll on me. The first stage started with a drowsy outburst and ended with liquified thoughts. During the second stage, I melded unto the bench with every rich breath I took, becoming a bench-human alloy of sorts. Then, upon the final stage, the shields of my eyes heavily idled (similar to the likes of a large stomach hung over a man’s belt line) until they covered my vision. Soon a deep sleep engaged; the engine still played its wonderful music; and I dreamt of an irretrievable point in time, only limited by the inaccessibility of time travel, and my biased memories.

    I warmly, and comfortably, awoke wrapped in the comfort of blankets and sheets to my mother's scream. It was not an angry one, but one that contained a melancholy plea; a pitiful woe. Following this was a loud pop, the sound of a hand striking human skin. And then mother yelped and cried a sad fit. It seemed to be not a cry for hurt, but one for betrayal; one for for emotional pain rather than physical.

   I unwrapped myself from the cocoon of blankets and began to walk, intrigued and fearful to inspect the scene. And as I walked out my room and down the hall, now filled with festive lights, holly and a mistletoe at the mouth, which was all too familiar, I heard muffled, manly grunts and screams. My father seemed to be guilty of the outbursts. I shivered a slight bodily quiver which yielded terror within itself.

   As the the hall ended, the mouth led to our family’s lovely living room. It was quaint yet festive due to the season. All the decorations seemed to glorify and compliment the holy grail of the house: a small tree with multi-colored lights which reflected off the fragile ornaments and silver tinsel: it was beautiful.

For a moment I forgot about the current objective, as I was lost in the tree’s wonder. Then, a desperate cry leaked from my mothers heart. Muffled grunts and screams ate at my soul; and the beauty of the tree broke. 

My parents were everything to my young self, but now they were imperfect, sad creatures; they were selfish and hateful. And then, in a hollow fashion, I looked to the left of the tree: a small coffee table lay, and upon it was a mostly-empty bottle that leaked some liquid.

It must be some mind altering poison, I thought, trying to justify the violent mood of the damned night.

  After examining the bottle, I looked to the door in front of the tree. I walked to it, my parents’ room. And then, as I got there, my ear parallel and upon the door, my hand rested on the knob: it was unusually chilled: it stang. I listened.

My mother said: Do you really want this?

My father replied: Quiet!

And then a hard slap (I assumed it was to the face) stopped my mother from a clever rebuttal.

  I started shaking, and fearfully pondered: who is this monster pretending to be my dad?

After all, my father had only yelled at me upon occasion, and had never laid a hand upon me in a violent or threatening manner.

I stopped. Then, from my head, a cold wave emitted to my toes. From there, a hot wave sprang back to the origin of the chill. The energy became dense, then became a sea, and I, a hopeless sailor, began to see a happy, perfect family as a facade; my mother was in danger because of my oh so loving father! I wanted to aid my mother; the light in the darkness; the meaning to those nine years of my life.

I thought: But I’m only a child. What could I do?  What use would I be?

And with a troubled heart, conflicting back and forth, I decided that it was a dispute for them to solve; a problem for no child to dabble in. And with a content heart, filled with excuses, I traveled back past the tree and down the hall and entered my room. I lept on my bed and blanketed myself from the night's oddly cold air. After about twenty minutes of reflecting upon the scene I closed my eyes, and sleep ensued.

And that was when my life’s role was appointed to me. I was to play the man who wanted to help; he who dared to, but did not; the one who is more guilty than the tormentor. I was to be the man with the key to unlock all locks, but scared too open doors that could not be closed.

 
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