Between a Door and a Memory

“Oh my god, oh my god, no, no please no.”

I keep repeating this over and over, as if it’ll change what’s happening.

I’m standing on the wrong side of a door, in a house my friends and some druggies had been squatting in for the past few weeks.

Since I’m the luckiest son of a woman who has post-traumatic stress disorder in the world, my best friend has locked herself behind this one particular door with all the keys.

Sophia has never been diagnosed with depression, and never will be. Her family never had the time or money for a shrink and the money she was trying to earn at Hannaford’s went to food and school supplies. Sophia has never been diagnosed with anything, but she’s definitely got something. That’s why we were so close, we could relate to each other.

I’m kneeling, sobbing as I realize what she’s about to do.

“Just go, Aaron.” She says.

Where would I go, though? Nowhere was worth staying if she wasn’t there.

“No, please, not again please. Just unlock the door we’ll talk about this.” I’m choking out the words as I sob, my face has never been this wet. It’s like I’m drowning myself.

“Just go.”

I’m punching the door now; she must really be trying to kill herself. It’s one of the only doors that doesn’t have weak hinges. I’m punching the door, but I’m not strong enough to knock it down. I felt a crack and realized one of my fingers must’ve broke. I start kicking, slamming my body against the door. Piece of shit won’t open.

I can hear her crying, and I think for one moment she might change her mind and unlock the door.

“Sophia, please.” My voice sounds different, it sounds like I’ve been drowning. There’s a moment of silence, and I start throwing myself against the door again, but I’m too skinny. If I’d stayed at home a little while longer, maybe I’d be well fed and big enough to break down the door, maybe. But I’ve been squatting with Sophia and Cornelius and Cathleen and a bunch of druggies where the only thing to eat was a head of lettuce that we all tried to make last a few days. Maybe if I’d been nibbling on roast beef I could make a dent in the wooden door, and been that much closer to saving Sophia.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t deserve this, please!” I often think back on me saying this, and how I sounded. When I would ponder over what really happened a year later, I would decide this was the moment I truly changed.

“That’s what you think.”

My heart is breaking with every word. Someone I loved was suicidal, locked in a room with all the keys, and there was no one in half a mile radius to help me.

“Don’t do it, please!” I’m drowning again. I can’t leave to get the phone, it never works anyway. The others wouldn’t have left their phones here, not when everyone here was willing to sell their grandma and her kidneys for cash, I’m all alone. I’m all alone with the one person I love to death. In movies kicking down a door is easy; the hero kicks the lock and saves the day. But I’m no hero, I’m a boy who’s just turned fifteen and has a broken finger. I can’t save the day no matter how many times I try to kick open the stupid fucking door.

“Fucking fuck! No!” I’m kicking the door, but my shoes start to become wet and stick to the floor. I look down, and see the pool of blood that congregated from underneath the door.

And I just stand there now, realizing what had happened on the other side of that door. Sophia had taken that razor blade and slit her wrists with it, and by the amount of blood that was pouring out from under the door that it was too late. I just stand there, disgusted at myself for not being able to do more.

“Run and get the phone.” I think, I had to call someone. I try to run but my legs had suddenly lost all strength in them, I had to hold onto the rotting walls for balance. My feet are weighed down by the blood that soaked them, making them stick to the ground. The blood seeped through the holes in my shoe, and every step I take makes it spread to the rest of my feet. What if this was all that was left of her?

I walk down the hall at what seemed to be an unbearably slow pace. There was still a phone with a cord attached to the wall there. I tried to pick it up with my right hand, but forgot about my broken finger and grunted in pain, holding my hand to my chest. I looked down to check my hand, and saw just how much blood covered my sneakers. Then I puked, and picked up the phone with my other hand.

I dial 9-1-1. Maybe this time the phone will work. Maybe if I dial a second time. Maybe a third, but the phone is dead, and has never worked. This sends another wave of panic into me, and I remember shaking uncontrollably. I puke again, and make my way back down the hall to the door where Sophia locked herself in.

“Sophia..” I say, but my voice is weak and my throat is sore from vomiting. “Sophia!” I say louder, it comes out like a moan, like some dying animal caught in a hunter’s trap, trying to chew its own leg off to escape. When I reach the door, I see that the pool of blood has grown, and now I truly know that it’s too late. She might have called out to me, and I could have been too busy to hear. Maybe I could’ve convinced her to open the door? Used my shirt or hoodie to bandage her wrists? We could probably have hitchhiked to the nearest hospital, or found a real bandage somewhere in this house, maybe if I had stayed.

I slowly kneel down in the pool of blood. It’s all that’s left of her, all that I can touch. I slammed my fist against the door again, hurting my broken finger. Why was I the only one here? Why couldn’t I have gone out as well with the others? Why couldn’t someone big enough to break down the door stay home? I slam my head against the door, but the physical pain can’t distract me from what’s going on. I remember what Sophia would say to me when we first started living here for the summer, “No matter what happens, the world keeps spinning and life goes on. It’s the cruelest lesson that everyone has to learn, and no one can learn it without something fucked up happening to them.”

Oh the irony.