How I End

"Black metal door handle on brown wooden door" Photo by Wolfgang Rottmann

This story was first published in the Open Field Undergraduate Literary Magazine 2017-2018

I had resolved to pull the door until it opened. If this captivity was to be the bookend of my short life, then I would have it climax at that potentially impenetrable end. With more and more of the staircase behind me, the coolness of the tile inching its way up through my socks, I was fixated on the tall forest green door and the brass hooked knob which stood in front of me. The darkness of midnight dissipated from my eyes, and the moonlight shone on the sweet metal. 

I had resolved to pull the door until it opened. If this captivity was to be the bookend of my short life, then I would have it climax at that potentially impenetrable end. 

With more and more of the staircase behind me, the coolness of the tile inching its way up through my socks, I was fixated on the tall forest green door and the brass hooked knob which stood in front of me. The darkness of midnight dissipated from my eyes, and the moonlight shone on the sweet metal. 

When I met the floor, I grasped the door handle as tight as I could, not yet opening it. Not yet engaging a single muscle. I must wait. For a sound. A sign from God. I knew not what made me pause, perhaps it was excitement. For the possibility that it would be open for me. And me alone. Or expectation of what lay on the other side, for I had been blindfolded on my way in on my first night. I remember tripping on the front step before this very door closed behind me, seemingly forever. Or maybe the coolness of the brass in my burned palm and through my blistered fingers was what threw me off.

I clutched it tighter, and with a sigh, pulled, aware of every muscle in my arm now working in tandem. 

It didn’t move but a centimeter within the thick frame. If it would not open for me, at least I could be content knowing that it was real, not a mirage or a cruel painting.

  A breeze cut through the seams of the doorframe and the windows on either side. I stared at the door. I did not move. After ten full breaths, I pulled again; this time I noticed the motion made a sound like a dropped tankard which reverberated around the frame of the corridor, and dissipated moments after. But the noise stayed with me, having penetrated my nightgown into my chest, into my lungs. I wondered if it would sound different when the door opened. If it would make a long croak, shrieking as it swung open. Or if it would glide smoothly on its hinges, making no announcement. But I knew whatever it sounded like when it opened would be euphony to my ears. 

For months, this door had stayed shut, not breached even for the messengers nor deliverers. I suppose they had their own entrances and secrets I was not privy to, though I never stopped searching. However this was the only one which had been so blatantly off-limits. This evergreen-painted slab of wood, making little impact on my daily life other than to complete the wall as I passed by it on my way to meals. It tortured my already grieving heart. Part of me wished that it had perhaps always been unlocked, that I had been simply too gullible to my Keeper’s threats. That it had always been ready for me to take my parting, to escape this miserable prison and gain entry to the world again.

Since day one of my bondage, I searched for the key, but to no avail. Upon catching me searching through drawers one afternoon, my Keeper told me not to bother looking for it, that it was taken outside the house after I arrived, and destroyed. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth, I could never tell. His eyes had an unmoving feature to them, in a way that locked me into place. Through all my other attempts to run or crawl out of here, he only stared at me with a strained smile. I was forced to believe that the key no longer existed. 

I pulled once more. It moved only the way it had my previous attempts. 

I leaned back to some degree and let my weight tug at the handle, hoping the screws which kept it in place were weak enough to break free, or else strong enough to hold me. I found comfort in that it remained rock solid, and didn’t waiver in the slightest, despite my continued captivity for the time being. The ceiling was outlined with spruce support beams across it. Although it was dim, I could make out the outline of a spider web in the corner. I wondered if the spider knew it was trapped too. 

It was at this point that I realized my resoluteness at pulling on this door, if it would open or not. The handle was starting to put an ache in my hand, my fingers no doubt flushed with blood now trying to heat themselves up. The burns on my palm underneath the gauze still stung, and I had half a mind to unravel it to relish in the untameable cold of the metal, blown in from the evening breeze. Perhaps it would chill my entire hand until it took hold of my arm as well. My fingers began to pulse from hot to cold to hot again, and I found myself breathing in time with them, all the while staring at that merciless door. 

I hadn’t noticed the dawn sneak up onto the corridor until it peaked through the window above the door frame. One of the only windows not curtained or boarded up, it was too high for me to see much except a few clouds. The sun had yet to make an entrance, but the sky lit up in that periwinkle smile that it does in the summer, enough that it caught my eye only once away from the handle. The grandfather clock in the adjacent dining room occasionally ticked in my right ear, but I was in and out of devoted consciousness to it. It came and went like the tide, as most of the sounds of the house did. Not once did I hear anyone stir, not nearly as often as I had thought on previous nights. The wind outside, turned out, was no more than a breeze, rather than the chorus of poltergeists I had been envisioning for months. Over the course of several quite peaceful hours dutifully holding this doorknob, the reality of the manor settled on me like a fine mist: this manor was only a house, those wicked monsters which kept me bound and imprisoned were only people, this door was only a thing settled on this plot of land, which I stood on with my own two feet. 

My feet had begun to ache hours ago, and now they felt almost asleep. However, my palm had sweat through most of the night, the adrenaline buzzing all over to keep it vigilant. Like I was tasked with guarding this door and would uphold the honor with my own life if it came to it. I chuckled at the thought of dying for a door. And wondered if it had ever been done before. In all of human history, I was sure it probably had, but the story simply hadn’t been repeated outside its original dwelling. I made a vow that once I was set free into the world, I would search every book I came across for one such story. For I had felt that it resembled the relationship I had developed with this door. The world and all its glory and smells and sounds of early morning robins and waves crashing, things I hadn’t heard in so long; they all bounded on the other side, as if they too were trying to open this door for me. As if the trees were sorry that their brethren stood in the way of my freedom, and they pushed their roots and branches against the wood. And the fauna, and the flora, the elk and the pine needles, they too joined the chorus of the world which longed to break me free. If not for myself, it’s for them that I continued to pull. 

Suddenly, there was a knock. Not from in front of me, but from upstairs. The dreadful voice of my Keeper followed, “Wake up, child. You must wake early for special occasions.” The locked door of my bedroom would betray his suspicions for a few minutes, until he woke the house to pry it open. “Child, get up.” His tinny voice singed my eardrums.

He hadn’t yet tried the knob, but I heard its jingling soon enough. My Keeper used some colorful language and went up the hallway, quite possibly passing by the staircase where he would have seen me standing, back to, trying to escape in broad daylight. 

I kept hold of the door handle through the disarray I heard behind me. Soon I tuned out their banging and shouting, preferring the clock ticking, tocking, ticking at the winding and relentless pace it does. I had decided before I had even gotten to the door that no matter what, this would be where I stayed until it opened. If they tried to drag me away, I would hold tighter. If they burned my hands again, I’d let them melt onto the floor, and I would seep beneath the crack which blows cool air on my toes. If I were beaten until I slipped into sleep,

I would get up, I would crawl, I would run back to this door. 

“She’s down there, sir,” said the meek voice of a maid, which drew my attention back from the shores of thought. There was quiet. And then there were the mutterings, the ever so irksome mutterings, as they mused with this new discovery in the case. 

Sure enough, they approached me. “What do you think you’re doing, child?” my Keeper stated, for it wasn’t a proper question. He didn’t care to know my intentions. In fact, he might not have wanted much of anything other than an excuse to hit me. “Did you hear me?” There was a hint in his tone like play, like every time he won a game. He used to play me in chess, and this voice came about on occasion, to convince me I had already lost. “Answer me, child.” 

I said nothing. 

They moved to stand on either side of me. “I suppose she’s sleepwalking,” the maid said. 

“I would beg to differ,” the Keeper sighed, “She just doesn’t know what’s good for her.” He places a hand on my shoulder, digging his claws into my skin. The heat from his body makes my eye twitch. “Now child, you know today is a special day, you’ve been waiting for it all your life. It’s time to stop playing these games.”

I stared at the handle. 

“This type of behavior is unbecoming of you. You know how much this pains me.” 

I did not speak. 

“Pity.” He drops the polite tone. “I thought you were more mature than this. Disappointing as it might be, it would be more disappointing to have to take more drastic measures again.” 

I glanced at my scabbed hands.

He smacked me on the back of my head. “You’ll be sorry later.” 

I did not flinch. 

A maid’s hushed voice reappeared behind me, “What are we to do about her?” 

There’s a pause, then my Keeper said, “The ceremony isn’t until 11. Fortunately we have time to wait this out. She’ll come to her senses eventually.” 

They left, off to my periphery, busying the morning as they always did. Other maids and servants would walk by me slowly, taking me in. Some tapped on my shoulder and asked if I was alright. To them, I also said nothing, for even their idleness in the presence of my mistreatment was just as sinful as the abuse itself. And regardless, I was on a mission.

Breakfast was made and enjoyed flamboyantly by the Keeper. “Such lovely eggs this morning,” he emphasized the food like a toddler learning vocabulary, “Don’t you agree? Oh, looks like the girl’s toast and bacon is going to get cold. Should I be forced to feed it to the dogs?” 

He continued like this for the duration of the morning. Guests trickled in, wearing their finest leather shoes, buckles, and skirts. I could feel their eyes. 

I watched the door handle with such intensity that the outline of it burned a permanent silhouette in my vision. If I wavered for a moment to the forest green of the door, the curve of my hand wrapped around the handle would follow my gaze. I continued diligently on pulling, leaning, pulling. 

Eventually the Keeper, a few maids, and some guests came to crowd around me, as I guessed the time neared 11am. The arm of my Keeper’s black tuxedo and his well-shined leather shoe creeped into the corner of my eye. A red rose peeked out of his breast pocket. He bent down to my level. “Now child, we’ve been so patient with you, but you’re trying me. No need to be naive. It’s time to get ready.” 

I said nothing. I pulled. 

He snapped his fingers and someone grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. They smelled like cheap champagne and eggs. 

“I’ve had enough of your games, kid.” A strand of greasy hair fell in front of his eye. “You will let go of that door and get ready for the ceremony this instant if you want to see your family again.” 

I said nothing. I leaned. 

“If you want to be difficult, I will be too.” Just then, I was slapped so hard in my ear that for a moment, I only heard ringing. I almost lost my balance had it not been for my grip on the handle. I straightened up as my hearing returned. 

“...kids, they always get cold feet,” some gruff voice behind me said. 

“... immature, ungrateful…” a woman chimed in. 

“... what a disaster of a wedding, huh? It’ll be a good story for the grandchildren.” 

I received another slap on the back that stung like a wasp. Someone stomped on my foot with their heel and it throbbed with hot pain. Another pulled my hair back, and my scalp screamed for release. They wanted to sink their teeth into me just to spit me out. I was their plaything. 

I held on to the door handle. I kept its coolness in my mind. I kept thinking of the sparrows, the trees… I felt someone claw down my back and dig their nails into my hips. But I rag-dolled in their grip. They pulled on me like tug-of-war, yanking me in all directions to make me lose my touch, all the while the Keeper stood beside the chaos, watching over us. 

To save my shoulder from popping out of its socket, I took the handle in both my hands and interlocked my fingers. I listened to the clock, and strained for the ocean, the summer breeze, my family, my town. I listened for the rocking of the dock in the harbor, and the music and new ideas from the trade ships. I heard them once. I had tasted the snow and the rain like it was a gift from God, once. I had smelled my mother’s cookies once, and saw the world in her eyes. I kissed a girl under the maple tree behind the church once and it was so new it was scary; it gave every part of my body a new name. I saw my dad in my grandfather’s jawline and my grandfather in me, and once, I learned everyone I’d ever met carries everyone else with them in their back pocket. I looked for the essence of all that beautiful world to keep my hand on that door knob. To keep it alive.

There was a bang like gunfire. Everyone shot backwards toward the stairs, including myself. Amidst the pile of dresses and legs, and shoes with and without feet, I regained my bearings. I found I was still holding onto the doorknob. However, it had become dislodged from the door. I was a little disheartened to have betrayed my post in this way. But as I looked up, I beheld the sun reflecting off the front walkway. Open air. The breeze drifted in lazily. The horses in the pasture across the road grazed behind the wooden fence. Summer rolled up its sleeves and tipped its hat to me, and whispered in the rustle of the trees, What are you waiting for? 

I stood once more, and while the mess of people still struggled to their feet, I took off down the path way and banked hard down the dirt road. I ran without looking back. Without needing to. I ran and made sails from my hair. I ran and the world smiled at me, Welcome home.