The Locked Door

• Liana Gangi, Grade 07
• Short Story
• 2008

I closed my eyes. There it was, the cold, shiny brass door. I could almost feel the cold metal, imagine the ornate carvings and smell the fresh pinewood, though this door was not real. I knew what it was. It was the ruthless item that had been placed between the world and my mind, keeping everything I wanted to tell people locked up. The sadness that had caused many years of crying stayed bolted away, behind those sharp metal locks, memories that I had the key to, memories I vowed never to be let out again. Starting school after four years of mourning wasn’t easy. At sixteen years of age, no one wants to be friends with a depressed-looking new boy. Some tried to knock on my door, asking me politely. I knew they didn’t really want to. The doors remained locked.
Others were actually interested! Questions flew to me, as fast as a bolt of lightning comes during a large storm. I could have made friends, lied about the past, become a new person. But the door was there, inside my mind. It called to me, ordered me to stay locked in its evil realm. I tried to escape, but it was too dangerous.
When the door to your mind is locked, people may try to get in. But as they see its danger, feel its creative patterns, as confusing as what lies behind, as they smell the rot that will follow, they leave, not even bothering to knock.
I sat alone, picking at my cheap, but affordable lunch. The cheese was at least a month old, green spots poking out the sides and tasting as bad as
ice cream on a rainy day. Being so absorbed by my lunch, I did not notice a girl, who looked the complete opposite of me; so pretty, happy and more importantly, in control of her mind, standing in front of me. I stared for a second and waited for her to tease, make a joke and call her ‘cool friends’ over. But she didn’t. The girl’s skin resembled the texture of a smooth beach rock, eyes sparkling like stars, just smiled. I glanced down, frozen from shock of actually being acknowledged by another teenager. Suddenly, I knew I should probably acknowledge her, but she was gone. Just as fast as she had come. Never, since I had been bullied in year 7, tortured because of my family’s lack of money and parents not having jobs, heard the wicked laughs and spiteful comments about my life, had I felt THIS much better. Maybe it’s okay to let people in, could it be possible the intimidating, dark item that kept my secrets, could be beaten?
That night, as I trudged home, I realised the bolts of the door had come loose.