Bleeding Light by Neekta B.
I.
The moment before your life changes, the air stills. If you’re lucky, that is. The split second warning is all the universe can spare. One hitched breath, one moment of anticipation, and then it hits you.
My night starts normally enough. I sit with my back pressed against the wall, tears streaming down my face. Like most nights. I close my eyes, wishing for just one moment of peace. Like most nights.
I open my eyes.
And there stands the door. Mahogany brown stretching to the ceiling. Pure light seeping through the edges.
And then I run.
II.
There are stories about the kinds of girls with doors looming behind them. The kinds of girls who go through those doors. The kinds of girls who don’t come back.
It’s not the kind of journey you come back from.
III.
My legs know the way to my best friend’s house better than my mind, panicked and slippery, does. Frantic, I ring her doorbell, nearly collapsing in relief when she opens the door.
“What–” she begins to ask, but I cut her off, grabbing her and burrowing my face in her shoulder. She holds me close, and I feel everything begin to mend, just a little.
“It’s okay,” she tells me, even before I can even begin to describe what’s wrong. “It’s okay.”
“The door,” I gasp, “there’s a door in my room.”
“It’s okay,” she repeats. “It’s okay. Me, too.”
IV.
I get used to the door, with time. I decorate it for the holidays. I dance around it. I steal some of the fear from it, and make it my own.
When I turn off the lights, I can still see the sliver of light bleeding through. Asking me, again and again, if I want to step through. Just to look around. Just to know. I could be free. I could leave all this behind.
Again and again, I learn to refuse. I begin to improve at this act of refusal. I keep my feet on solid ground.
V.
It’s not the kind of pain that goes away. The door is smaller, some days, but it stays.
Here’s the thing, though: so do I.