Writing Prompt Wednesday #113
Write a story titled ‘The Locked Door.’ https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/general/write-a-story-titled-the-locked-door/
“I hate you.”
The words echoed around my mind. The pain of it all scratched at my soul, running back and forth like a blade across metal. Scratching the surface, but not cutting deep into my heart. Well, not yet.
“You never loved me.”
I didn’t know whether I wanted to laugh or cry or scream. I did some combination of the three, tugging at my hair in agony as tears flowed down my face. There were too many thoughts to handle. The idea that I never loved her was laughable. I put everything into her. I gave up the rest of my life to worship her, to be at her beck and call. I didn’t just love her, I exalted her.
And the knowledge that she didn’t believe me was so saddening and frustrating that I didn’t know what to do with myself. My brain couldn’t seem to decide what to do with itself. I bounced back and forth from sobbing in heartbreak to almost tearing down my shabby little apartment in rage.
“Don’t ever come back here.”
I had broken at that. A pleading, sobbing mess. I promised her things that I couldn’t even promise myself, hoping that she might listen. Might forgive me. I didn’t know what there was to be forgiven for.
She hadn’t even cared. She’d been more upset that I was going to get her floor dirty with my tears and snot. I might as well have been some kind of pesky rodent, squeaking my pleas with someone who could never understand me.
What did one do with someone who refused to listen? I didn’t know. How could you ever get any headway when the person you loved wouldn’t hear you? You couldn’t talk it out. Communication was thrown out the window. Any begging or pleading was worthless. So what?
She may well have been a locked door for all I knew. She used to let me in. For a long while, since I didn’t have the key, she’d take pity on me. She’d unlock the door and let me hurry through into the warmth of her embrace. It was nice.
The problem with not having your own key was that whenever the occupant wanted, she could lock you out.
And no matter how much pleading or begging or sniveling or crying you tried, it wouldn’t work. The door didn’t open a crack. No light flooded through the gap between the floorboards or the keyhole. It was like no one had ever lived there at all.
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