The Closed Door (Part I)

There was enough silence for the beats of my heart to resonate in my ears, each beat seemed to shrink the small room where I was, one more intense than the previous one. I didn't know what I was doing in a tub, but I was there, locked in a room that couldn't even be called a room; as small as a closet, painted in its most abandoned and sickly shade of green, with only an iron door. I had seen it for a moment, thinking there was something behind that door, but I lowered my head again and shifted uncomfortably in the tub. Yes, I was inside a dirty tub, but I felt safe in there, I didn't want to get out and I didn't want to look at the door again.

I felt my eyes tired and could barely blink normally, I brought a hand to my face and rubbed it roughly to wake myself up, although it was useless. It's the kind of situation where you can't do it yourself, the kind of situation where you feel like a bastard for not being able to help yourself and you look so vulnerable. There was no one who could see how I was, so I was my own audience and judge, I think that was worse. A sound was heard and I immediately looked at the iron door. It was coming from the other side.

"Come on —I said in my mind—, that's enough..." and I slowly placed my hands on the sides of the tub, when I was about to get up I felt moisture down my skin. There hadn't been any water in the tub before, I was sure of that. I wasn't able to feel disgust until a loud noise scared me and I fell back into the tub, I had covered my ears and wasn't careful. The pain came later. And it had only been dealt with the window, it opened again with aggression, like a slap. I looked thru the window, there was only darkness and nothing else, but for that moment, I stopped believing my own eyes. I wanted to close it again, but there was something out there that wouldn't let me.

Everything was dark, but the surface was soft, it was my old bed. When I opened my eyes, I felt relieved to see my room, the old one from when I lived with my family. "How did I forget that I had arrived?" I thought, still lying in bed. I hadn't realized how much I had missed that bed; I could feel the wires poking thru the fabric of the mattress, but it still felt comfortable. I didn't take long to get up because I heard someone coughing, I left the room and found my cousin.

"Are you sick?" What's wrong? —I asked him as soon as I saw him. He seemed to be choking, coughing loudly but there were no signs that it was serious. He looked at me and shook his head.

"They're smoking a lot today," he said and coughed again. I would have never expected that response; no one smoked at home. It was almost a prohibition.

I approached him with a strange expression, gave him a light pat on the shoulder, and decided not to say anything more. I had the impression that no one in that house knew about my stay, but there was no surprise during our first encounter. I won't mention my cousin's name, but I'll say he was barely sixteen years old, and although he sometimes acted like a rebel, vises like those were not allowed for him either. We had been raised that way, we were or tried to be the concept of what our parents considered ideal; but one of us always tended to fail more. In some way, I admired the one who failed more and knew how to move on, as well as how to face the terror of the furious maternal figure. I, on the other hand, was a coward.

I left my cousin behind, he had stayed in the bathroom, and I headed to the kitchen, from where the noise of people I started to hear was coming. After opening the door, I only found a very distant aunt sitting at the dining table, with a cigaret in her mouth, looking at me with disdain. I noticed that the kitchen was full of smoke and I couldn't stand firm as soon as I stepped in. Soon I felt dizzy and covered my mouth. I couldn't care less about the distant aunt and left her behind to enter the living room, but the smoke was still thick. Thru the hazy vision, I looked at my gathered family, sitting with cigarets in their hands and mouths, everything was becoming stranger and more incomprehensible.

"Ah, look who's here," announced the oldest, my grandfather, as he looked at me. His astonishment lasted a second before he directed a glare of contempt at me. The others remained silent.

"What the hell are you doing?..." —I asked, still breathless and disappointed. I could feel the burning in my eyes because of the environment.

I looked at my younger siblings, they were also smoking with a sickly naturalness, I analyzed their faces, I couldn't believe they were real. How could I prove that it wasn't a dream? I looked at my grandfather again when I heard him speaking to my father and shamelessly ignoring my presence.

"This is worse than garbage, it's crap!" he spat and took a drag, looking at me for a second with boredom. They leave and abandon the family, then they come back expecting us to offer them a place to stay.

stay, they just use us. Do you think she remembers you, René? Please, he doesn't even remember me, who raised him all his life!

"How can you be so shameless?" I murmured in pain, looking at him.

I wanted to approach him, but an internal rage stopped me and I left the room, not getting very far because that man's heavy footsteps echoed torturously in my ears. I remember that I didn't usually run away from him because I feared being caught and that the punishment would be even worse; obedience used to guaranty me some protection, but it only alleviated the inevitable. Courage can be seen in different ways, running even tho you know you will be caught or hoping that you won't be; now I had escaped to be chased and face the greatest terror, the hatred of the family. I turned to find my father, as mentioned earlier, his name was René and he used to be kinder to me, but like everything else at that moment, he also acted differently. I immediately looked at his hand when he started to raise it to point a gun at me, and something inside me froze, it couldn't be happening. I looked into his eyes and knew it wasn't him, his gaze seemed as sick as a zombie. I slowly raised my hands so as not to startle him, although I thot I knew my father, something in my heart was not surprised to see him pointing a gun at me. Yes, he was kind to me, but I had no doubt he was capable of shooting me. The thot altered something that was already evident in my mind; I had always accepted my dad and never cared about what he did. He was completely free from his forgotten firstborn because I didn't despise him; perhaps the permissiveness hit me back at that moment.

"Go ahead, shoot," I finally said. I felt the coldness of the gun's tip resting dangerously on the skin of my forehead. Why does my hope in them continue to fight against me? Why do I have faith that it won't happen and take the risk? I didn't see any change in his face, but mine froze for a second when the bullet was fired. I heard the body fall to the ground, but I could see it in the same place without any alteration. He watched the body collapse and no longer looked at me. I am dead.