A little farfetched, but I like the message.
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Alice tried to remember who had given her the key. They dull brass of its teeth shone dimly as she turned it over in her hand. For the hundredth time, she stuck it into the waiting keyhole. It turned and stopped with a satisfying click.
The room it opened to was a memento in itself. Her drawings lined every inch of every wall, dying the room with memories. Happy memories of her graceful hand stroking that pad of Manila paper with the charcoal.
He kept it locked, always. For seven years, his mind had entertained that the door had never opened once, that his attempt to stifle all the pain into that little chamber had worked. Alice saw him for a coward, never facing the past, the heartbreak. He lived for comfort, be he was never comfortable. He hadn’t been for seven years.
It was like she’d never left, it had been untouched for so long. The numerous sketchbooks heaped together in the corner of the mahogany desk, her sticks of charcoal and numerous drawing pencils protruded from an old soup can, waiting patiently to be picked up once more. They waited for her soft touch; they waited to dance across the page once more, guided by her will, her creativity. They would never dance those same lines again, the melancholy feeling sat cross legged in the middle of the room, waiting to see if Alice would challenge it.
She didn’t, she dragged her fingers along the edges of the paper lining the walls. Her face, captured in a youthful and childlike innocence stared back at her, more full of life than the real thing.
It felt like balancing, coming into this room. Teetering on the fence of healthy remembrance and emotional breakdown, Alice didn’t know which one would hurt the most.
Her favorite picture was the one of her as a baby, sleeping, like nothing bad could ever happen. The beauty of these simple lines had the tears racing to the fleshy pink corners of her eyes. The simple inscription ran across the bottom in sinuous, winding cursive; Ali.
Little beads of water found their way across her pallid cheekbones, blazing shimmering trails. She wasn’t Ali anymore. She could never be Ali again. When her mother died, she’d had to become Alice. She’d had to grow up at the age of seven, watching her father melt from the inside out, becoming a shadow of who he’d once been. She hadn’t lost one parent, she’d lost two. An orphan of circumstance.
She crossed to the chair, plush and inviting, it welcomed the weight of her body like a much needed hug. Alice pulled her legs under her; trying to mimic the position her mother had held whenever she was intently sketching.
She still held the key in her hand, the same hand someone had slipped it into the day of the funeral. Her eyes had been swimming in tears, watching the huge looming casket sit before her. An envelope landed in her hand, she couldn’t tell who had dropped it there. The words, for the studio, had been printed neatly on the front. The key sat inside, slid to the left corner. It hadn’t taken long for her to understand what it meant.
After a few minutes, Alice dragged herself off the chair and to the door, afraid that if she spent too much time here, it would lose it’s magic. She slid the key back into the lock quietly, complacently. She’d had to learn to keep dead silent over the years.
She walked back to her room through the corridor, shadows from the dim lighting etching themselves into the paneling, carving her form into the wood. Alice picked up her stride, just wanting to get back to her room. One more turn and she could slip back into its comfortable recesses.
A tall, spongy body absorbed the impact instead, sending Alice stumbling backwards, and dropping the beautiful worn down key onto the hardwood.
“Dad,” she squeaked, suddenly afraid. He’d heard the key fall, her heartbeat sped throughout her body, until every cell pulsed with its rapture.
He didn’t say anything, but bent slowly and picked up the key, twisting it in his worn palms. His eyes, which usually held a somber reluctance, seemed to alight with a tiny spark of happiness.
One more second, and she felt his arms descend upon her, pulling her into him slowly, a hand reached up and slowly stroked her dark brown hair.
Alice was shocked, but only for a moment. She found her arms extending only a few seconds after his did, starving for the love that had been denied of her since age seven.
He muttered the words, softly into her head, “I’m glad you’re using my key. I love you Alice.”
