I was told to ignore the door with the faded red paint behind the stacks of cardboard boxes. The wall ends there, Mac, they said. I gave into the curiosity one day immediately after clocking out. But I never went through it. I simply gave it a look-see from outside the building. The door just led directly to the gravelly parking lot behind the warehouse where I stood. A mandatory fire door as ordered by the fire marshal, I deduced. The investigation ended then but the thought of the door always lingered at the back of my brain like a… well, like a mysterious, unopened door. I’d walk past it while running warehouse-related errands in the back room but I never found a spare minute to turn that dull knob. Maybe I was putting it off. But why? It’s a freakin’ door, for Christ’s sakes. Of course, there were instances when I could’ve turned the damn thing. Many, now that I look back. You don’t understand because you’ve never stood by the door. Cobwebs are set up in every nook and cranny in that back room. The boxes, some barely a day old, can be found with a daddy-long-leg nestled inside the safe dryness. The door is perfectly clear of cobwebs for at least 5 feet from the header and sides. So you can relate, it’s that room you try to not be in alone; the one you’ll never sleep in, even if it meant sleeping outside. Same thing, right? I will never the door. I didn’t even give it the satisfaction of saving me from the blaze that erupted in the back room. A fire fed by those dry, flammable boxes.
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