The voices are cheerful. Drinks all around. Story-telling sessions. Someone shares an anecdote; it leaves everyone laughing. A word, a sound – she leaves the room and walks down the corridor. The light from the room shines into the corridor, but most of it is in darkness. She walks into the arms of the darkness. It’s the relentless pull of an old friend. No room for secrets.
The door’s still there – solid, imposing. She rubs her hand lightly over the texture; it feels the same. It brings back memories of all those times she stood in this exact place. She is blinded momentarily by the familiar flashes of pain.
Maybe today is like always.
Unsure as ever, she slowly turns the handle. It feels heavy in her hand. She steps into the room. She remembers it from the last time she was in here. The boxes are all there. She glances at the shiny, bright-colored boxes as she walk by; a ragged doll, the cover of her favorite storybook, the blanket, a torn sheet out of her first diary. The musty smell wakes her out of her reverie. Even the doll stares accusingly at her. She has been trying so hard, over and over and over again; she pleads with her, but the doll glares relentlessly; she doesn’t want her fairy dress to smell of pain. It doesn’t matter; she will have to try again. She can’t let the smell overtake her beautiful boxes too. That would hurt too much, like all those times when there was no air to breathe.