She was far past the point of wanting to simply sit down and cry. It felt almost as if she had missed the gap in her resolve that would have let her do so – the hole she could have huddled at the bottom of, hiding sobs against her knees and waiting for the world to somehow fix itself on its own.
Far past that opportunity, all she could do was walk, dragging her blistered feet down the unending hallway that had started at her apartment door.
At the end of an already long and trying day. She hadn’t even looked properly when she’d been letting herself into the apartment. She’d been in such a hurry to turn and lock the door, the whole damn world on the other side, that she’d noticed the absence of her apartment only after she had done so. And by then, the door had refused to open again.
The same as all those that lined the hall. Ordinary-looking white clapboard, handles that turned freely, but they all rattled in their frames and only shuddered stoically if she threw her weight against them.
At least, all of those she had tried before she had given up. She’d been wandering far too close to panic, ricocheting from one side of the hall to the other, slamming on one door with her fist and the next with her shoulder. Rattling handles and screaming for anyone to answer her, anyone, until her voice had been a hoarse, helpless croak, her throat dry, and she’d started having horrible thoughts about conserving strength and moisture.
If she was there long enough to have to truly worry about such things, she would go mad. If she had to wonder if she might die of dehydration…
She couldn’t. She couldn’t. It had all been normal, right up until that last moment. Things like that just didn’t happen. The world didn’t just change that way, out from under someone who had spent almost three decades patiently tolerating its smothering sameness.
It just wouldn’t be fair. But nothing behind the doors had answered when she’d screamed that, either. So what was left for her to do? To think?
Nothing. Nothing but what she was doing, trying not to think, trudging on in hopes of finding something different. Merciful, something that made sense. Her head swayed with each step, her gaze hollow and almost accepting as the threadbare grey carpet passed it by.
If she gave up, perhaps that would be when it took pity on her. Or perhaps she would just sit down and find herself without the strength to stand again, and nothing else would change at all. She wasn’t ready to find out yet.
She set a hand to the wall instead, fingernails against the beige paint and passing doors. A scratching sound against the hollow spaces that wouldn’t admit her, and kept walking, with no hope left except that someone would hear and open a door behind her to investigate.
