One step, one more, then a third. I walk up to the door with a guise of confidence and my hand goes flying up to grasp the brass knocker. My hand attaches to it like a magnet, gripping as if my life depends on it, and I feel the coolness of the simply carved knocker. My knuckles turn from scarlet to white as tendons move under my skin like restless worms. A frigid shock surges down my body, reminding me how much I don’t want to be here.

I am a coward. Anyone can tell this by the way I shrug away from my fears and shy away from the door. I can’t bring myself to do it, to lift the knocker and bring it down hard enough for the building’s inhabitants to hear. Why am I afraid? Is it the news I am bringing, or how they will react? My news is like a pack, heavy and solid on my back, steadily making me miserable; the burden I’m carrying grows worse each passing day.

The irony is that I used to love this place. I fell asleep fantasizing about running up to this crisply white, windowless door which seemed to be as tall as the redwood trees I visited as a child. I was younger then, and the world seemed perfect and flawlessly simple. The people in the house loved me unconditionally and I loved them back, a fairytale scene, encompassing enchanted and untouchable memories that no amount of hatred could taint. My laughter seemed to be a repeating record within the house, always echoing through the halls, cheery and tingling, but things have changed. The door seems smaller now, pitiful, lonely and smudged with grime and passing time. The door is no longer an unwanted obstacle, keeping me from the inside of the house and the people residing there, but a comforting barrier, separating me from h*ll. And what a h*ll it is now, smothering and suffocating slowly but persistently each time I am there. My laughter is now an unwanted ghost in these halls, rarely making an appearance, and even then, cautious and artificial.

I pick at the peeling paint on the door willing myself to knock and get it over with. A frown is etched into my lips, pinched and disturbed. In my other hand is a bag from a grocery store which crinkles in the gentle breeze. I wish it was only some canned vegetables and cold cuts. It’s much more wicked though, and the bag is simply its disguise. I can’t tell anyone what it is, except the people in the house, and the secret has been killing me. Keeping secrets has never been my forte, and because of this no one trusts me. And I can’t say I blame them because I am contemptible and guilty.

Again, my fist rises to the center of the door. All my anger, anxiety, and rigidity contained in one single motion; all my desperation balled up. This can’t wait any longer. I stare at the door like a lion eying its prey, keeping it on its toes, making the hunt more fun. I try to bring myself to feel satisfaction in this deed of revenge, but I cannot. I am not completely evil, and therefore I can’t help but picture the memories, and wonder if there is still something good about these people. I wonder if there is a chance that I am making a mistake here in front of this dull old door, which rises only four or five inches above the crown of my head. But then again, does it matter if they are still good? Either way, they hurt me and abandoned me, crushing any chance of my future. They turned me into this monster. But despite this, I still hesitate.

Suddenly, filled with a burst of adrenaline and confidence I knock on the door with three distinct taps. Immediately my hand slaps against my mouth, and I am shocked by my own limb, as if it has acted on its own and betrayed the rest of me. I hear myself whimper as a myriad of emotions cloud my brain. I begin to quiver, my breath quickens, and my long nails press painfully into my skin. I tell myself that I deserve it.

About this time, I realize that nothing has happened, and I hear no movement inside. I wiggle the brass door handle and to my surprise the door opens, eerie and inviting. As I peer in I see that the front room has been stripped of furniture. It is clear that no one has been living here for a while. I let out a piercing screech, tears overflowing down my face. My fingers go limp and the bag drops with a thud to the ground. My nightmare is a reality. No one is home.