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Sisel Gelman

The door calls for me day and night.The door haunts me day and night.

It’s the first thing I see when I wake up, and the last thing on my mind when I go to bed.

To my mother, my bedroom door seems like any other—plain and wooden with a round metal door handle on the left side—but to me, well… I’ve seen its soul.

It began on the first day of sixth grade when the door turned bright green. I was too afraid to start middle school the next day: I feared teachers who could give me bad grades and bullies who could laugh at my hair. I feared those unknown unknowns. I spent the entire night intermittently crying until, sometime around two in the morning, the door took on an eerie glow. The door frame pulsated a soft pine-green light that quickly grew into a blinding emerald hue. There was nothing I could do but lay in bed, petrified and in awe at the scene unfolding privately to me in the dark. I knew, wrapped under my sheets with dilated pupils, that the door was a sign I would be safe at school. I just knew it.

I told my mother, and she told me I was making things up. I told her I wasn’t.

My mother then picked up her keys and told me she was late for her job. That was my cue to shut up and keep this new knowledge to myself.

I saw my mom walk out the front door, and soon after, I did the same thing to walk to the bus stop. I couldn’t blame her for reacting that way; my mom’s job as a cashier at a convenience store kept her perpetually tired. But it paid the bills.

That night, she came back home after two shifts and collapsed on the couch. My mom was asleep before her head even hit the pillow. I put away the pasta I had cooked for us and imagined myself telling her about my day. It had gone well, just like the door had said.

I went into my room and found myself worrying in the dark. Would my mother have a better job someday? The door glowed green again and I felt a warmth run through my body. I trusted the door immediately.

The door and I had daily conversations about a myriad of topics.

“Does he like me?” I asked. The door shone pink. I squealed in excitement.

“Should I worry about being cast in the play?” I asked. The door beamed a calming blue. I exhaled in relief.

We kept each other company when the silence was too much to bear. Most of the time, it happened when my mom was away.

Middle school flew by with the door by my side, comforting me whenever I needed it, but once high school hit, things began to go wrong

and the door got angry.

“Will this failed test wreck my grade?” I asked. The door mourned with a dark purple. I anxiously bit my lip.

“Should I have a second slice of pizza?” I asked. The door warned me not to with a bright orange. I put my plate aside.

During my sophomore year, my mother found herself a boyfriend and a better job as a restaurant manager. Things got easier with her, but I slowly retreated into my room to avoid everything else that could go wrong.

My room was safe. My room would’ve remained safe if the door hadn’t begun burning bright red every night.

My mother doesn’t sense the door’s anger. She’s happy for herself and happy that I got into a nearby community college… despite my bad grades.

“It’ll be good for you to make friends,” she says, “You spend all day, every day, in your room.”

“I like it in there,” I lie. I don’t ever talk about the door with her. I used to bring up its colors and how they made me feel, but she never believed me, so I stopped speaking up.

“Aren’t you excited for this new chapter in your life?” She reaches out to hold my hand across the dinner table. wwwwI wonder if the reason she now insists we have dinner together every school night is to compensate for all the meals she wasn’t there for growing up. Is that how guilt works?

The door overhears us and burns a brighter crimson red than usual that night. It’s never tried to hurt me, but ungodly things like these always find a way to. The door frightens me whenever it’s just the two of us— which is often.

I sometimes feel a magnetic pull towards its colors, like an unusual kind of excitement in my bones that begs me to stay in the room with it—but it’s that type of optical illusion that only looks good from far away. I tried to touch the colors once, but I found out that the closer I got to the door in its burning state, the sicker I felt. I can’t take more than a couple of steps towards it without my stomach churning. Staying on my bed next to the window is often my best bet when the door calls for me.

But more and more each day, I find myself daydreaming about what must exist on the other side; past the hallway, past the kitchen, past the living room, past the front door. I hear my mother’s wine-drunk laugh down the hall and her new fiancé chiming in alongside, and I think about how things have changed for her.

What new world could await if I choose to stand up and just open the door? Could I be happy?

I decide to try. The door senses the change in me and lowers the temperature in the room. It makes the hairs on my arm stand up.

“Can I please leave?” I ask. The door turns red. I got to my feet tentatively. The door slams itself shut before I can even tiptoe to it. My jaw hangs. I climb back into bed and stare at it.

It stares back at me, angry. The door burns so brightly; crimson has turned to wine, to maroon, to black.

I’ve never seen the door turn black.Despite this color, the entire room is engulfed in white light.“But I’m curious to know what’s out there,” I say.

The door claws at the walls in rage as a response to that comment. It threatens to pull my childhood paintings right off their hooks on the wall and topple my bookshelves. It craves to preserve us all for itself so violently. I can even hear a windlike whistle emanating from the dark hole in my room.

I have to try again for the sake of my future.I jump out of bed. I leave the safety of its warm covers for good.If I don’t get out now, I never will.The door tugs at my soul inside my body. I take my first step.

The door senses me coming towards it—the thing it has always feared—and starts to suck the air around me with more force to get me to stop. I take a second heavy step.

My stomach clenches. I push through with a third step, although it feels as if my bare feet were stuck to the cold wooden floor. An invisible concrete wall keeps me from going any further, but I rest my entire body weight on it and fall through. Only a couple of steps more.

I fling myself over and over again towards the door with the last amount of energy I’ve got. With each movement, I brace myself for the scolding pain I’ll feel on my hands when I finally touch the light.

“I can’t stay!” I yell. “I can’t stay here forever and feed off of your fear.”

The whistle becomes a scream. The door is so dark I can see myself as a sixth-grader nested inside.

“Stay,” I hear her say. “The world is a bad place. It’s easier inside.”

“I don’t want to believe that,” I shake my head and take my last step. I put my hands out with a preemptive whimper at what the door will feel like once we finally merge.

The door is cool to the touch.

Loose strands of hair whisp around my face in response to the strong wind, but they do not bother me. I stand up straight and close my eyes as I feel the door lose all its power over me.

My jaw relaxes. My stomach unclenches. My breathing becomes deeper. I glide my hand down to the doorknob and open the door with ease.