Behind the Door

The door, metal and sturdy, peaked out of a wall made of cheap industrial cement and brick. It sported a glossy, deceptively-smooth, jet-black surface with tiny imperfections comprised of dirt particles breaching the thin film covering.

The door looked like a dark chocolate bar; It was partitioned by tall, narrow, deep gaps. On it's left side was an ornamental heart made of wound metal framing a flap that served as a window, also black and flawed. Behind it the hinges screeched thirstily whenever the latch for the window was toggled.

The door was dense and exacted the maximum effort to operate leading many to just leave it ajar, only just so, in order to deter hens from nesting within. The door concealed a dark room with no other windows, caked in spider webs, decorated with the hats, boots, and tools of the ranchers. Sickles and machetes rusted quietly on their hanging hooks, their chipped blades bleeding latex, their plastic handles worn and taped over. It smelled of chicken feed, and cow shit.

The door, when opened, covered a handmade, wooden bookshelf, inconveniently, making it difficult to spot the primary school texts, journals, and catholic school pamphlets that had been stored guiltily, all to be forgotten. The pages of these things were fading, barely physical at all, like transparent mesh, their words barely legible, and just as meaningless in their attempt to exist. Dead flies, mosquitoes, and spiders saturated the bookshelf. A thick dust settled on the ends lifting and ebbing with every entrance only to settle again where it had thousands of times before. Nails and splinters jutted at odd angles.

The door remained unchanged for generations. Large, machined, and unapologetic, this slab of metal closed during thunderstorms, floods, and on occasion blocked out volcanic ash. The door vibrated lazily during earthquakes, unyielding and shut.