A lengthy corridor floods my blurred vision. Deep oak doors decorate the perfectly painted, plum walls; they lay bare, exposed to the naked eye, with no decoration to hide any flaws, for there are none.

No stranger to this hall, my eyes adjust to the eerie oak outlines. Brass knobs reflect the dim light like a beacon guiding my feet to take yet another powerful step.

My shoulders give in to a masked, malevolent force inside my soul as I turn to the right, silently shepherding my body to the first door.

Fitting like a puzzle inside the door frame, my hand reaches for the knob with strength; the lustrous knob remains motionless despite my wrist twisting with all my might. I shuffle backward, out the frame, with a wave of shock—almost verging on rejection—taking over my mind.

The door, a door I had used, locked, and unlatched many times before, refuses to open.

Awe floods my nerves as my knuckle reached toward the door with hesitation ringing in my fingertips, mimicking an unanswered phone. Gentle rasps cavort throughout the hall as my hand knocks against the door.

No answer.

The door creaks, acknowledging my efforts, but it does not open; in front of me, the door daringly remains halted in place.

I resign from my unspoken war against the door. Saving my energy, I face my back toward the door, and I place my eyes on the next.

Like a target, I stroll to the next door. Opposite to the first, I place my faith in it, hoping I can just get through. All I need is for it to open, just a smidge like it used to. And when I reach for the knob, this one a bit more trusted than the first, my fear is reinforced. It doesn’t budge.

A weight sinks in my lungs, weighing me down closer the floor; my hands move, less agile than before, to prepare for the knock. My mind is stating the realistic, that no one will answer from the other side, but my heart is gripping onto hope.

My fingers huddle together and project themselves against the door.

No answer.

Questions cloud my mind. Why won’t they open? I struggle to explain it; is it just a fluke? Fanatic energy, once possessed while at the first door, drains from my body as a coincidence seems less and less plausible.

Motivation and haste have abandoned my body as I weakly waltzed to the third door.

I repeat the same routine: approach, unsuccessfully twist the knob and knock.

No answer.

Only the bangs of my fist against oak fill my ears with the sound of the aged doors opening being forgotten in my dreams as I hopefully knock upon every door.

Knocks and twists greet every door as desperation amplifies within me, increasing as I saunter deeper into the corridor. Appealing to every door, new or old, familiar or mysterious, I put all my strength into my endless knocks for a deafening lack of answers.

The plum walls reach an end, and I am confronted with the final door—the final option.

Decaying wood outlines the oak with a tarnished knob that my hand has never graced before. This door, the final door, is a stranger to me, but anguish has consumed my senses, so I timidly place myself in front.

Using all my strength, I send a terminal hit against the door. My knuckle, bruised and impaired from the incessant knocking, bangs against the door with might. The hit—filled with desperation and hopelessness—reverberates down the dark hall as I erode in front of the door.

Waiting and waiting for the response, every second without creaks or a reply from the other side enfeebles my body; minutes pass with no response, and I collapse to my knees from crippling exhaustion.

Huddled in front of the door, I’m exhausted from trying and trying and trying, only to be met with the still, unstirred world around me. The doors, once open and accepting of me, are now sealed tight, leaving me alone.

What did I do?

I wish for one to open, for just a crack of light to stream out, so I can have that hope again.