The Door

[ezekrialase]

Even as a small child, I knew my mother was different from the ones others had. I knew this because I would constantly see, whenever people would get picked up or dropped off from school, mothers lovingly giving their little boys or girls a hug and a kiss, and more often than not adding "have a wonderful day at school, I love you!" without a second thought. Then the child would grudgingly say, embarrassed by her and wanting to get away as quickly as possible from her smothering embrace, "yeah ok Mom, Iloveyoutobye." I would have given anything back then to trade places with those children.
Because you see, my mother didn't give me a ride to school. I had to walk. She rarely hugged me, and in fact I can only think of one or two times in my entire life when she actually did, and that was only because others were around, watching her. She has never told me "I love you," not even once. Back then I thought those were magical words. Words that she would grant me when I earned them, like a good grade in school. Words that, once I had become big enough or strong enough or smart enough or clean enough, she would one day let me hear. Then maybe I would be like other children. Maybe then she would start giving me rides to school. It was my little project for years, trying to be good enough for her to hear those words. But they never came. No matter what I did, I could not be good enough for her to say those words.
My mother also had a room, her room, and that room had a door. To a seven year old it was a very imposing door. Made of polished mahogany, with a shiny brass doorknob, it looked to me like a portal into a different, better place. A place where she would finally accept and love me, like all of the other mothers accepted and loved their children. If I could only get her to open that door and let me in, then perhaps everything would change. Perhaps, if my mother loved me, then the other children would play with me like they played with their real friends every day during recess. Maybe then someone would walk home from school with me. Maybe I wouldn't always be alone.
But, just like she never told me "I love you," she never opened that door. I'd been to other children's houses for birthday parties and, occasionally, just to hang out, and I knew that other mothers generally stayed downstairs with their children to talk or cook or watch television, or just to be with them. Nobody ever came to our house. My mother stayed locked in her room. She left me alone.
You might expect all of this made me hate my mother, or at least mildly dislike her, but no, if anything it made me love her more. It made me appreciate every moment I was with her, because more often than not I wasn't. She was in her room, and I was downstairs reading or watching television by myself. To me this was normal.
One day I got fed up though. I had grown to hate that closed door. It was closed so often that, eventually, that was how I figured out if she was home or not. If the door was opened even a crack, she wasn't.
So late one night, after having a particularly sad and lonely day, I decided to try and make her open that door. At first it was just a soft tap. Then a knock, and a "Mommy, can you come outside? Please?" After softly knocking on that mahogany door for 20 minutes, I started getting desperate. I knocked harder, and harder, until I was pounding on that door with my little fists as hard as I possibly could. I screamed and cried, wailing at the top of my lungs, "MOMMY, PLEASE OPEN THE DOOR! I need you. I NEED YOU!" I pounded on that door until my hands were raw and numb. Eventually I collapsed in a heap by her door, whimpering and sobbing like the weak, scared little child I was. I must have lain there pathetically like that for half an hour, waiting for her to come out.
I wanted her to open that door with a loud BANG and come quickly rushing out to scoop me up in her arms and hold me close to her, to tell me everything was alright, to wipe away my tears and kiss me and finally tell me she loved me, that I didn't have to cry because she was there. I wanted her to open that door and never close it again.
After a while she did open the door. I heard the harsh "click" of the lock being undone, and heard the door quietly open. I stood up as quickly as I could, trying to wipe my tear and my running nose on my pajamas so she wouldn't see them.
Once the door was opened all the way I saw her, towering above me, seeming especially tall because I was a very, very small child. I gazed up at her with hope, seeing all of my dreams coming true in my mind's eye. I waited with my breath held, too happy to speak. I think I started crying again too.
Looking down on me, with the television blaring from inside her room, she calmly waited for me to say something. When I didn't, she said in a sharp, clipped voice, because you see I had interrupted her, "What do you want? Say something."
My voice constricted so tightly that no words could come. I wanted to hug her and say "thank you mommy, this is all I need! Just keep that door open and I'll leave you alone! Just please don't close that door mommy!" But of course I couldn't. After a long pause, she turned away and, before closing the door, said "that really annoyed me. Don't do it again." She softly closed the door. The click of the lock being turned was the most painful sound I have ever heard.
After staring at the door's brass doorknob for 15 minutes, silently crying and filling my head with the screams I couldn't let anyone hear, I bowed my head and slowly went downstairs. With each step down that long, carpeted staircase my tears dried more. I could feel something dying. My hopes, my dreams, my fantasies, all of them were gone. In their place only a sad and lonely emptiness remained. I listened to my mother. It has been 10 years since that day, and I have not tried to open her door again.

[queenjellybean]

This has such deeper metaphorical meaning to it. I like how the reader was able to get into the narrator's thoughts, and how the amount of precise detail helped explain the story well.

[ladylilith]

I agree with QJB, the possibility of metaphorical depth is really striking. The symbolic placement of the door especially. Such a sad tale though, it really pulled on my heart, every child deserves his/her mother's love. And as children I think most of us hold a kind of hero worship for our parents, wanting so hard to impress them, make them proud.. Have their love.

A detailed and distressing write, emotively effective. Great work!

Lily^^

[Jahaliel]

This really affected me, the power was in the clarity of the descriptions the matter of fact tone this took. I guess what really broke my heart was when the speaker told how he loved her still.

[ramfire]

Something is terribly wrong with that mother. Where's your dad? So many questions about that boy could be asked. Your story is sad to the max, but I think it might be true for many children. It's no fun to be a "latch key kid". I was one.

[rupertpupkin]

Hi. This was very well written and most captivating. Very sad tale with no happy ending. I thought the door was a touching metaphor. Good job.