Anthology of Short Stories - Vol. 1 (Literary Fiction)

A Closed Door - @ForestDreaming

A Closed Door by ForestDreaming

The sounds are quiet. They would not wake me if I had fallen asleep.
The curtains block the streetlamp. The air is stifling. The summer sun beat on the outside of the walls all day. The closed window holds back the cooler night. I reach to the dresser to turn on the small reading lamp. My eyes cringe at its white halo.

I look behind me and out the open doorway. The door across the hall is closed. It dampens the sound of moaning.

The top of the dresser is bare. The outlines of empty hangers are the only things inside the open closet. A bed is in front of me. The posters pinned to the walls show none of their colours. The corners of the room hide in shadow. Everything is sketched in blacks and greys, except for the cardboard box under the light.

Quicker and higher noises escape her from behind the closed door. They would not wake me.

I sit down on the bed with the box in my hands. It is as wide as my lap and half as tall. His diary rests on top. I open it. I study the shapes of his letters and the spacing of his words, one page at a time. The black lines on a white canvas could be drawing stories about places he was in and times he passed through them. His pen may have reached for single moments, bound them with ink, and captured them on this paper. The sentences could be wandering all over this page as they follow his thoughts around. Maybe the few words on the last pages struggle to contain his feelings. Maybe this book knows his dreams. I put his diary down.

Her sounds worsen. I can't close his bedroom door. Creaks are waiting in the floorboards.

His belt with the square bronze buckle is wound in tightening circles and set up against the side of the box. I pick it up and unwind it. My palm runs along the smooth and soft leather that only gets that way from being worn every day around busy hips on long legs that walk down to the forest with me and over to the river. The buckle is heavy in my hand. It weighs me down, like a stone tied around my waist in deep water. I wrap up the belt and put it back.

The closed door makes no difference now. She's heaving.

The keys for his bike lock sit on top of his pencil case. His student card and bus pass poke out from under them. I lift them to the light. He's smiling at me, but he already knew.

I catch a sob before it makes a sound and push it back where it belongs. The pressure of more of them works its way up from my chest into my throat. My fingertips cover my mouth to hold them back while I force long and deep breaths into and out of my lungs.

Our father's sounds are low and soothing. Our mother chokes on her cries.

I look back into the box. His favourite concert shirt is in there. I take it out from under all his other things and put the box on the floor.

Her weeping softens. A gentle hushing emerges behind the terrible sounds.

I lift his shirt to my face and breathe through it. His sweetness clings to the fabric. I made sure it wasn't washed after they took it off him. I unfold it in front of me. Something small and light falls from it, then taps on the wooden floor.

His words are a tuneless lullaby. Her sobbing fades.

I put the shirt down on the bed and bend forward. My fingers search the dark floor and find what has fallen. I bring it to my face. It's his guitar pick. I sit and stare at the little triangle with rounded corners. My eyes burn to look at it. My mouth turns down at the edges. My breathing is jagged. I keep hold of the pick and use both hands to cover my whole face. Each breath rushes into me. I can only slow them on the way out.

There are no sounds coming through the door.

I blink to clear my vision. I switch off the lamp, then get into his bed and pull his sheets over me. I turn my face into his pillow to dry the tears. I hold his pick in one hand. I bring his shirt to my face with the other. The smell of him keeps me breathing.