Vignette Story

Pounding

    The sound of the crash filled my ears like a firework set off closer than it should’ve been. I slowly made my way up the stairs and stopped at the landing. I had run into a force field that wasn’t actually there. Something in my little head told me to stop. It was as if the walls were speaking to me telling me no. As if the stairs I had just stepped on were pulling me back down. Back down to my spot on the striped carpet in front of the tv. Back down to the show with the characters that made every problem go away. Where I sat happy in my own little oblivion. Something as forgiving and forgetful as a child’s mind is a beautiful thing. Beautiful things are often taken advantage of. Beautiful things often have a fatal flaw. My mind was flawed with curiosity. So I continued past the nonexistent force field and the speaking walls and pulled away from the steps that tried to drag me down. I made it all the way to the door. The door with its fresh white paint and broken door knob. The same door knob that had trapped me in that room accidentally for years. Or maybe it wasn't accidentally. Maybe the door knob and the walls and the stairs and the force field all served the same purpose. To preserve my forgiving and forgetful mind. My mistake was ignoring them. The door with the fresh white paint and the broken door knob had a crack. A long jagged crack right down the center. Not a literal crack but a metaphorical crack. A crack that represented how my look on life would change. How the grey areas would be colored in like one of my coloring books. The perfectly painted door with the  broken door knob was imperfect. Imperfect like my curiosity. Imperfect like my life.