A Red Door Emotionally Tortures Me

         The mood is a combination: it is two glasses of rosé, it is angsty indie music, it is drunken kids in the room over, it is a rejected text message, and it is 12:14 in the morning. It's that mix of loneliness and rejection and a total revaluation of your entire life that creates this specific mood.
         In my mind, there is a door. In the grey-scale landscape, it slashes through the scenery like a red wound. That door represents everything that cannot be. Outside that door is a broken heart, inside maybe two, but outside definitely one. Sitting alone on a hill at the edge of town, the door is a prayer. Which is funny, because I stopped praying years ago. I think that makes the metaphor more apt.
         Where to begin on this lonely evening, my friends. I couldn't tell you our entire love story. It would take too long and I'm afraid it would bore you. It's quite conventional to tell the truth. Cliché even. I didn't think so back then. Conventional was quaint and cliché was meant to be. But no, I will not bore you with the good parts and I will not torture myself with them.
Nobody reads a story for the good parts, anyway. Don't pretend you do, you'll be lying to yourself and to me. Don't I deserve honesty? No, no: we read stories for the suffering, the tears, the anger, the pain, the nitty gritty details that make us feel something but from a distance. You escape from your humdrum life which is even more conventional and cliché than mine, read a little story, experience those emotions you've so been longing for, and then you can leave them behind. We long for pain but we don't want to experience it. I guess that's what we use art for.
So then, let's start with the pain. I felt the most pain staring at that red door the first time. It had closed a few minutes, a few hours ago. I was across the street and it was after midnight, kind of like tonight. It might have been cold, it might not have been. I didn't feel that; I only felt pain. It was located under my ribs, where my stomach might have been but deeper, if that makes any sense. The ache started near my spine and spread through that area, tensing every muscle in my body. Tears were there but they weren't. I wanted to cry, I wanted to sob and scream, but my eyes were frustratingly dry. Part of me wanted to puke on the doorstep just so I could feel something. I was staring at that door for ages, the red an insult to my tired eyes but the only thing I could focus on in this colorless landscape.
The next time I saw the door, it hurt just as much. Probably more because when I saw it the second time, I hadn't expected it. It was a sucker punch to the gut that left me quite breathless. Did you know that emotional pain could take your breath away? The pain was unbearable and so I made up a metaphor to help myself through it. I imagined myself as a vase. The first time I was staring at the door, a hole had been punched in my vase persona. Of course, this doesn't shatter me because I'm a proper sturdy vase, but I've got broken edges and a gaping hole now. The next time I saw the door, it was like grabbing the sharp edges with a bare hand. Fucking hurts again.
The metaphor provides a lot of comfort for me because I had to keep touching that spot. Every time I saw the door, which was a lot due to the unfortunate path of my daily commute, I had to touch that spot. My mind would wander aimless and hit the spot. I learned to use a hard material over the metaphorical hand, to protect it. And I wore the edges of the vase down so that touching it in the same ways stopped hurting so much. It got worn enough after so much time that it almost stopped hurting me. Instead it left a large empty hole. That didn't hurt, it just felt empty.
So now you know the background, or at least as much as you need to know. Who was behind the door and why did it hurt me so? That's a truth too difficult for words. I know, I know it's frustrating when people tempt you with such juicy stories and then hide them away like that. But these types of stories are difficult to tell. They're juicy for a reason.
Back to the mood tonight then. The moment that is the focus of my story. Because I had moved on, friends. Of course I had. My life had moved on to bigger and better things. I didn't even have to see that door anymore, because I left town. My mind learned to avoid her. The thing about time is that it keeps moving, farther and farther away from the worst moment of your life. Before you know it, you haven't spoken to her in a week, a month, a year. You stop counting and that is when you find your freedom. At least you think so.
There's a wall that's built. This wall is important. You build an emotional fortress to protect yourself, the thing you put on that metaphorical hand so as not to hurt yourself whenever you happen to touch the vase. But it's not as sturdy as we pretend it is. It can be taken down by a couple glasses of rosé, angsty indie music, a drunken party in the room over, a rejected text message and a clock that says 12:14 AM.
Rejection is an important part of this mood as well, so let me explain that to you. I had met someone the day before at a club. I had just had a "Honey Bomb": Honey Jack Daniels and Red Bull. It lingered on my lips as I danced with my friends. The music was fun to dance to and not horrible at this place. The occasional indie song would even play and if you haven't noticed by now, friends, I am a trashy indie hipster. In that moment, I was a drunk trashy indie hipster getting his groove on.
Nearby danced a beautiful girl. There were a lot of beautiful girls, but this one kept looking at me. Her eyes would catch mine and then she'd look away. But they kept coming back to mine. She was so pretty too. Not hot, not the type you drool at the whole night, a type of beauty that keeps your eyes. A type of elegance that was beyond the rabble of the crowd, she looked almost out of place. Like an ancient queen trapped at a 21st century night club. Though not haughty either because she was dancing almost as crazy as I was.
As my buzzing Honey Bombed mind processed this, I realized she was getting closer. She was right next to me now. I knew I should make a move. Her arm rubbed against mine but a rush of panic: what if I had read the whole thing wrong?
Nope. We were kissing pretty soon after that. We talked, she seemed cool and she was a great kisser. Her name was Emily and she was from a town over, out for the night. She liked to write. We spent the next hour talking, dancing, and kissing; it was kind of amazing. I had to leave, but she had me give her my number which made me smile. And she texted me a few minutes after that! The conversation (which I have read far too many times since) was as follows:
Emily: Hey this is the girl you were just kissing
Me: hey emily!!!
Me: this is charlie
Me: the guy you were just kissing
I have a tendency to double and triple text. I hoped that wouldn't annoy her. The next day (today until about fourteen minutes ago), I waited and waited. I hoped she might text me first. Around seven, my roommate saw me checking my phone for the tenth time in like two minutes.
"Dude, just text her."
After debating quite a few different clever openers and some increased stalling, I finally typed and sent the perfect message:
         hey it was nice meeting you last night :)
         The regret was instant, of course. You can't take back text messages and so I screamed instead, wondering why this torturous means of communication had been invented. An hour passed, two hours, three. Then, the spiraling. This had been the first person I had met in a while that hadn't felt shallow. I had felt interested. We seemed to vibe in that hour and I wanted to get to know her more. But she wasn't going to text me back, I knew it. As I spiraled, the red door flashed through my mind. It hadn't been there in months and before I could even allow myself to process it, I told it to go away.
         That's when I broke out the rosé. The only alcohol I owned in the apartment, the entire bottle had cost $4, and so I poured a healthy glass.
Looking for a distraction, any distraction, I started playing a shooting video game by myself. Which shouldn't matter because I like being alone. I don't need to be hanging out with people, I told myself as I poured that second glass of rosé.
         "Thomaaaas!" came a muffled voice through the wall. It made me jump, though my name is not Thomas. A chorus of voices cheered in reply. I couldn't make out the words, but I could make out that the owners of the voices were drinking. It was a Saturday night, some people would be going out, and it sounded like my neighbors were pre-gaming at their place.
         The mood that night would not have been complete without them there. There is a type of loneliness that can only be created by the presence of a large social gathering that you haven't been invited too. Of course, they wouldn't invite me; I didn't even know those people. But it's the community, the acceptance, that you're just on the outside of and it drives you a little crazy. Especially if your text message has been rejected and you've had two glasses of ros Your mind keeps pulling up the picture of the red door like a tab that won't close. And now a name has joined the door to torture you, a name that you cannot think. So, you put on the indie music.
         The name of the band doesn't matter, just imagine a sad and angsty voice over an acoustic guitar and dramatic drum beats. There's a thousand bands that sound like that, so take your pick. Choose whichever one makes you feel most alone. After a few songs, the sound somehow made the room emptier. I glanced at the time: 12:14AM.
         They were laughing drunkenly in the room over. The rosé had settled. The music reached the chorus. I didn't even need to look at my phone to know that Emily hadn't replied. That's when I realized my musical defense mechanism had backfired.
         Now you get to know the name behind the red door because at 12:14AM the wall shattered. Her blue eyes and curly brown hair came rushing back to me, along with the feeling of her skin under my fingers. I could hear her laughter and feel every good emotion we had built together. My chest ached.
         Teresa.
         I was touching my metaphorical vase bare-handed again and I found a new sharp edge that had not yet dulled. It cut me again and I was bleeding.
         There was a small lamp on in the far corner of my room and this feels important to tell you because I want you to understand what I was seeing in the moment. This whole spiel is about the emotion of that moment and to feel what I felt, you need to see it too. The lamp threw my room into a yellow light with sharp shadows. The comforter on my bed was also yellow, extra yellow in this light. I bunched and un-bunched the fabric. Even though the music was playing and the drunk kids were being drunk next door, I could hear myself breathing. Even worse, I could hear Teresa speaking and laughing in my mind.
         I had unfriended her on Facebook months ago, the last time I had built the wall. I realized one sleepless night that I couldn't move past her until I no longer gave myself permission to revisit her. Even though we had left on "good terms" (they all say their breakup is on 'good terms,' don't they), I needed to tear this bridge down to move on for good. Because in a moment like this, when the wall has yet again shattered, I would find her on Facebook just to pretend she was there. I let myself indulge in my memories even though it would do more harm than good. Last time, I got rid of the bridge. That meant I couldn't find her that way tonight. It made her even farther away.
         Instead, I contented myself with that red door. I pretended to knock on it. In the fantasy, it was before that red door started to hurt me, back when I liked it. I knocked three times on that prayer of a door and she answered. I pulled her into my arms, wove her dark hair through my fingers, and let her gentle lips take mine. It felt good for a suspended moment.
         Then the bad came back. The problems, the mistakes, the words. The reasons it hadn't been forever. I can pretend it was perfect, but I'd be lying. Don't I deserve honesty?
         "You never say what you mean." "I just feel so frustrated all the time." "I'm afraid to be trapped." "I need to go." "We can't talk anymore." "It's over, Charlie." "Can we still be friends?" "Don't pull that shit on me." "We both know better than that." "This will never work."
         The words played in my mind over and over, almost as often as that red door. I was angry with myself. Why couldn't I remember her and just let it be good? Can't I remember the touch of her without having my heart broken all over again? But the sick universal law of breakups and heartbreaks says no.
         The clock read 12:27AM now. The indie album ended. In the silence that followed, I realized my drunken pals next door had left. That's the thing about these moments: they pass. It is both good and bad, because it frees me from the spiral. But then I'm back to the humdrum. And you, my friends, get bored because you were only here for my pain anyway.
         There's no resolution tonight, I'm afraid. Just a couple thousand words based on a thousand different moments and metaphors and indie songs. And time keeps ticking on. Already, I was building the wall again. At least I had the scraps of the previous one to build the foundations on. This one would be even stronger. It could even be the last one I ever build.
         The red door was already fading, desaturating into the scenery around it. I'd keep it closed forever one of these days.