The Little Red Door

Fine! Fine! Fine. I will say, if you insist it cannot be helped, if you must witness me so. Gods! Fine. If I must.

Well, I suppose you might remember from the news, it was some time ago now, but you just might remember… how he died. The basics, at least, a sketch, a tracing of the general outline. You must’ve heard about it! It was all over that summer. Yea, it was a while ago… I can forgive the fog, for you were distant from it– but gods, when an image burns that bright, that dark! it sears, forever, a branding iron upon your soul, if only you stand near enough! It would be burned upon your being too, if you had learned the whole story, back then. Perhaps we might may instead have been in each other’s places! Ha! If you feel it will help, then I will try.

              Eleven years ago, my brother, a few years younger than I was, passed. We always called him Tito. He was still a child… but a fire, a raging one, cracking lightning. He was so loud, so impulsive. I promise, there stood no trees he had not climbed within a dozen miles of our house, in those days. Such rosy cheeks, what a smile, and his cinnamon hair!

Speaking of, our Father, up until that time – well I suppose he ceased to be long before, but I, we, were none the wiser- was incredible. He was around a lot, loving, and kind. He and Tito shared that same smile. I still remember, on those warm, singing summer evenings when he came home, stinking of sweat and metal, he would bring the sun home with him, and it would peer radiant through the doorway behind him. And his hands were raw from working, for us, long hours, yet we would always go in the backyard, and read and play and yell, till light too needed to rest and the sun found gentle slumber... I cannot forget those days. Yet those evening shadows seem cooler, as I look back. Summer fruit, grown bitter now…

              We didn’t have much, growing up. It was tough. Yea, things were bad. Those days, back when the Crown was in, they took all we had, then more. I suppose that’s what changed things, set it all off for Father… there’s only so much a person can give. Only so much a person can take before they crack and ignite and all that’s left is burnt earth and black smoke. Some can endure more than others. I suppose Father was one of those people who – whether they’re stronger or weaker for it, I still can’t tell – couldn’t put up with much before they snap. He, we! only had so little to give. Some people are made to endure, others are made to catch alight. No one’s ever told me which is better…

              …oh. Sorry, I was seeing it again– that happens at times, my losing focus... I was remembering the backyard, Fathers chair, that little red door Tito had. Father had built into a nook in forest in the back, tucked behind some fallen branches and leaves and flowers. Tito was the only one who could fit, and he used to spend hours in there, hiding or playing or what. I never really knew. I didn’t want to disrupt him. We would all sit in the backyard and Father would read to us. Him in the chair, me on the lawn at his feet, little Tito tucked behind that red door, listening. Following.

              But the sun always sets eventually. Doors close, and snow falls. Around when Tito turned nine, those eleven years ago – do you remember, the Crown levied that new conscription law? Yes, that’s the one, you’re correct… Well, after that, Father began to stay out, far later than before, refusing to come back until the house was asleep. He left early in the morning, too. We hardly saw him anymore, perhaps once every handful of days, and always in fleeting moments. I was older then, sixteen odd, but Tito was still a kid, and he struggled with it. A boy’s father is his light in the darkness. The house felt empty, the backyard quiet. I grew solemn, such as I am, though Tito… Tito grew less so. He grew angry, impulsive, irrational. Some endure, some cannot.

              That fateful, damned, horrid day, Mother caught him before school, in the cool morning, sneaking around in their room. I was walking to sit out in the still air of the back for a while, when I heard the commotion of Mother yelling at Tito. I missed what was said, but moments later I saw him leaving the room, seemingly flustered and sullen – thought I must admit, and I thought it odd then, he left with a odd light in his eye, and a little piece of paper crumpled up, hidden in his sweating hands. He dashed out passed me into the backyard, through the little red door and into his nook.

              …I read that note later, after it all was done. I can’t help but wonder how things could have gone... If I had asked him about it? Seen what the commotion was about, and if I had been more curious? If I had pushed harder? Could I have changed things? Tito, Father – would they still be here?

              I’ve said before, and you’re well aware: I am, unfortunately, by nature, solitary. I’m most comfortable with my own company, I’ll be the first to admit. Summer fruit. Tito, however… Tito was lightning, always loud, you heard him coming around a corner long before you saw him. Ha. Bright eyed… you know, I never understood how he had the energy he did. His cheeks were always so flushed. I wonder, did he have a little red flame inside, burning to get out? I wonder – anyways. He had many friends at school, though he had only been there a short time. They would meet in our backyard, and would yell and run and hide and fight and laugh – everyday, in the afternoon, without fail. I resented it, if I’m being honest, since I wanted to be able to read outside, like Tito and Father and I did before. I suppose though, without Father, we were forced to grow in whatever way the wind blew. I grew inward. Tito grew outward. 

              But that day, the morning after his fight with Mother, he was, well, off. After he had come out of his little red door, as we were walking to school, he was unusually silent. It was odd – I assumed Mother had been too harsh with him.

Yet, at one of the corners before the school, as we were walking past that same grasping apple tree we always did, crossing beneath it’s falling leaves, he turned to me, serious and distraught, and spoke. He asked me if I knew the location of The Old Guildhall. I told him it was deep on the far side of town, next to the Witching Wood, and across from The Missing Shack. I asked him where he had learned of it, and he told me a friend had told him about it. Morbid topic, for kids to talk about, I told him – of course you know how vile it’s reputation was, even then - but he turned silent and continued walking. I pressed no further. To my discredit.

              He did not meet with his friends that afternoon – the backyard was deathly silent, as I sat reading in that same spot on the grass I used to when Father was around. Tito hid away, behind that little red door, keeping away from his friends. I was immensely grateful for the silence. 

              Incidentally, it’d been a few weeks since we’d last actually seen Father, and from what little I had to go off of – bumps in the night, the darkness under Mother’s eyes – I learned he would come home a short time each night, around midnight, slipping into his room and back out again. It was the same, that night. I never heard him come, or them go, since I was asleep, but I learned of it the next morning… I still see it, no! feel it! every time my eyes close. The things Tito must have. On that night… Mother tells me time will help it heal, but truthfully, its only made the memories more real…

              As I was saying, I learned what’d happened the next morning. After Father left, Tito had snuck out after him, trailing him. A boy, following his father. Nothing more. Both sneaking across town, to The Guildhall, under the cover of a weeping moon.

              The Police told us later Father had been an avid member of that… group… that met there, in secret, spending each ill-fated evening together, for a long time now. I guess they felt that new conscription laws had forced them to take more… drastic actions. They had been planning the whole affair, of that night, for some time, I guess… Father would’ve walked right through the front door of that evil Guildhall, passed the barbed fences and those guards who always stood sentinel next to the doors, watching the twisting leaves. I like to think, pray, desperately, that the whole time he was clawing at his soul not to enter, to turn around, but feeling he had no other choice. For us. Yet my fear whispers it was done proudly…

              Do you remember those… missing kids? There were 11 of them in total. From Neum, from that wretched neighborhood near the docks. Yea, yea, you’re correct. Yea, that’s the one… You remember, yea, you do. They were there… Tito, they said, must have snuck and joined up with them as they were being led in the back way, past the end of the road and doubling back through the Witching Wood. How he found them? Divine Providence, I guess. Ha. He wanted to follow his Father – he wanted to know what was behind that damned, shadowed door that Father would hide away in. I can’t imagine what he must have been feeling – sneaking into that group, pretending as a kid split off from that flock... Tito! Tito! Tito!

              …I am sorry… Sorry. Sorry, a moment… Please. It still burns, streaking across my mind… I visited that horrid Guildhall, two years after the whole ordeal was done. I had to know! I had to see it! Whispers said there was still something there, from the arrests, that the police couldn’t move. Truly, I think they refused to move it. Any sane man would do the same. What Tito saw… God! Oh, God! How dark it was, how my scream tore at my heart! Tito! Oh! Tito! They led them, those lambs! My brother! I saw where they were herded, that main room, in the back, that damned main room, that accursed hall! The statue! That infernal statue! I swear to you, it still reeked of smoke! You saw it in print, but I saw it in brass! That sneering bulls head, the curling horns, grasping hands! The black stains on the roof, on the nostrils, of smoke, of smoke! A cavity in it’s chest, flamed and scorched! A pair of drums at its feet! I hear them pounding still! And a little charred door, I could still see it stained red!

              Oh! Oh Lord! Did he know?! TITO!

              …The note – of course, the crumpled note, from my fathers room… that terrible note. I read it later, hidden away, in Tito’s little nook… I visited Mother, just a few weeks ago. To this day, I still grow faint when I see Tito’s little door! The note was tucked away, in the back of the nook. It was to my Father, from some other patron of the Guildhall, listing times and rites, songs and texts, which were to be read and known for that fateful night! Oh that fateful night! It terminated, in a lone name, written on the bottom of the note, scrawled in looping hand. I was ignorant of its significance then, and if there was mercy I would still be! For the fire burns too bright, the sparks too hot! I no longer fear the enduring dark!

              For the name was Moloch, of Old Canaan!