"The Locked Door"

Like all locked doors, it leads to nowhere. This seems contradictory at first, but it makes sense. Locked doors mean there is nothing of use to you behind them. No opportunity that fits your need and your life behind a locked door. So why pick the lock or smash it down if you won't use the contents. The maintenance worker's closet holds no use to the principal even if she gets the key.  

That is what I tell myself as I stare at this locked door that goes nowhere that I have no purpose opening. That this door probably has nothing beneficial to me in it. Even if I don't know for sure.

And yet I do not move from the door. 

It is not a fascinating door.

It is made of white wood, the grooves in the panels collecting a fine layer of dust, and my reflection in the mirror-like doorknob is grotesquely contorted. My large eyes were amplified by the roundness of the doorknob. 

I try to move past the door, but my feet are rooted to the spot. My hips swing with the motion of turning, a key ring jangling musically in my pocket, but my feet don't go anywhere.

A key ring.

A small thrill shoots through me, awakening the nerves in my spine, fingertips, and toes. I have a heightened awareness of each digit as I reach in my pocket, pulling out the key ring. It must have a hundred keys on it. Intimidated by the sheer number, I try to move my feet again, but they still don't budge, the keys twinkling pleasantly to my annoyance. I attempt to throw them down, I can't move, I can't open the door, there's no way to know if I have the right key and-

The keyring doesn't drop from my hand.

I could feel my frown deepening, and I tried throwing the key ring at the door, but it never went any farther than my fingertips. The singing keys caressed just the tip of my longest finger before sliding back to my palm. As if they are connected to my skin like magnets. I slowly unfurl my fingers one by one, extending my arm outward, fingers splayed as if attempting to give the locked door a handshake. 

The keyring slips down the lateral side of my palm warm metal ring clinging to just the outline of my flesh. Curiosity temporarily curbing any alarm I investigate. It didn't feel wrong to have the keyring in my hand, even though I did not know I even possessed them a moment earlier. 

Through my examination, I discovered the keys were remarkably made. They looked more like a work of art than a tool to be used. The keyring was made of thin glinting gold, but the keys were a rainbow of different colors and materials. One had the engraving of a bear rendered in cherry wood, it's head up-tilted mouth open in a snarl. Turning the key sideways, I saw that the teeth of the key made up the teeth of the bear, fiercely beautiful. Another key was made of glass or perhaps resin, and trapped inside was a delicate bee and a tiny bluebell. Another resin key held a bit of honeycomb, and another had a powerful stinger. One key contained a suspiciously blood-colored liquid that sloshed around the inside of the key shuddering, I flipped past it.

Something deep in my bones told me I wouldn't be able to move until I found the right key. And I wasn't sure what would happen if I chose the wrong one. The image of the blood key flashed behind my retinas, staining my vision briefly, and I shuddered again. I froze. It was safer to just stand here paralyzed in this time and space rather than risk the unknown. I mean, what if the blood key wasn't blood and was something else? What if it was the resin key with the wicked stinger I shouldn't choose? 

As if awaiting the invitation, all the little voices in my head poured out. Slipping through the cracks in my subconscious, voicing their misgivings in my own voice.

What if it's not worth it?

What if I can't do it?

What if I make everything worse?

What lies beyond the door?

What if doors are better left closed?

You haven't earned it yet.

Just wait a little longer. Your time will come…

You don't know what's beyond the door

You don't know what's beyond the door

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S BEYOND THE DOOR.

The keys chimed cheerfully in my shaking palm, unaware of my jangling nerves.

I was frozen. 

I had an urge to be like the bee key to lose myself in a sea of sameness to become one of the millions, a hive without individual hopes, dreams, or fear.

There is security in being one of many.

There is no risk in being one of many.

In one long slow breath, I come back to myself, stilling the urge to take flight. Stilling the frantic heartbeat so loud it echoes within my ribcage.

Be still.

I returned my gaze to the keys when I found a steady internal rhythm. The shining metals winked out at me, drawing my eye.

I picked out a bronze one on a whim. It was, like the others, lovingly made. The bronze, deep and brilliant, was made in the shape of a monarch butterfly, the wings inlaid with brilliant crimson-orange topaz. I turned the key over its metal, warm to the touch. It felt like it was right.

I tried once again to move my legs, attempting to wrench them from the spot they were rooted from. They didn't move, but they didn't feel as stuck to the floor as before. As if something was telling me, "Close, but not quite."

I let the key go, marking its place on the key ring. And picked up another key, pale green depicting a caterpillar, the ridges on its back matching the teeth of the key.

Again, I tried to move, and this time I did, my feet breaking free the release so jarring I stumbled into the door. 

Right there in my line of sight was the lock. My hands steady, I inserted the key, turning it clockwise. I heard a satisfying click, but the key only turned a quarter. Confused, I rode harder, the edge of the key biting into my hand, drawing blood. I hissed, withdrawing out the key, wiping my hand on my sweater, the blood marring the light fabric. 

Feeling the beginning of a hunch, I found the monarch key excitement thrumming through me. I inserted it, but it would not go in farther than halfway. I pushed hard again, but nothing.

I wracked my brain for answers, but it felt so right. Caterpillars turned into butterflies. Maybe I needed to try caterpillar again. I looked for the key; it should be easy to find now that it was marked with my blood. I flipped through the keys, searching for red and green within the sea of colors but nothing. I checked once, twice.

It was gone.

It was tempting to give up. Easy. It required no effort. The notion tantalizing, like forbidden fruit, my mouth watering for a taste, a respite.

Caterpillar. Butterfly… but what was in between? What transformation occurs?  Realization dawned, bright as a day reborn.

Chrysalis. 

My fingers, clumsy in their excitement, clinked through the keys to one that had caught my attention briefly earlier on. A key made entirely of stained glass in the shape of what I now knew to be a chrysalis. I inserted the key, and just like the first, it slid in easily but only turned a little of the way. But the doorway was halfway unlocked now, and the door rattled as I slid the last key free.

I was so close.

But I knew what key was next, still free to move. I slid in the monarch butterfly key. The butterfly is upside down as if hanging from the key's teeth. It gave a satisfying click as I cranked it all the way. I blinked, and there in my hand was a monarch butterfly where the keyring had been.

A butterfly. And an open door.

The butterfly took flight, pausing briefly in the doorway as if to ask if I was coming.

I saw the opportunity, so I took a chance and followed it into the darkness beyond.