Closing Doors 

Standing at the bottom of a dingy, marble staircase, I cannot even bring myself to look upwards. Instead, my stare sweeps across the over-used, metal handrail that I, myself, must have used a hundred times. Reaching the top of the stairs, I tread slowly down the hallway, dragging my feet unwillingly towards Johan’s old room, the last room on the left. Although I know the room is empty, I still pull the door open slowly, quietly. The windows across the small cell are open and a free, refreshing breeze billows out into a blue, sunlit sky. Somehow, the beauty of the day makes this visit more difficult. An aching fear fills me with adrenaline as the room comes into full view; my feet are still somehow propelling me forward. I stop, just inside the doorway. After six months, the room is still the same. Even after avoiding the ‘hospital’ for so long, I can see every detail of the room, even while I blink salty tears onto the marbled floor. I sink onto the stained, misshapen bean bag in the corner of the room, cover my face with my hands to block out the scene, close my eyes and search for closure with the love of my life. 

For the four years that I knew him, Johan was my life. His dark, youthful hair and warm, fulfilling smile were contrasted by deep, penetrating eyes and a mature demeanor. We shared everything. We both had the same relentless obsession with Tetris, Friends, and irritating television commercials. We even shared an intense resentment for our expensive, pretentious high school. 
I remember the days we ran away from school. We escaped from the prison-gray, stifling building, crawling on our hands and knees on the hot asphalt of the parking lot so as not to be seen. I leaned back on to the warm, suede seats of his beat-up, turquoise Corvette convertible. Then he revved the engine and we sped away, leaving behind a bright, promising future in the dark, oppressive hallways that we both hated so much. We rolled down all the windows and turned the volume of his scratched oldies CD up to the maximum. We cruised down the road, pushing ninety and singing out-of-tune with the music, and I looked over into his smiling, open face. I always felt safe with him. 
He and I were always in trouble. I snuck out of the house with him one night, locking my bedroom door and climbing stealthily over the fence behind our yard. We couldn’t help giggling and skipping like children as we ran, barefoot, towards my lake. We sat on the dock, our dirty jeans rolled up to our knees, and our faces glowing with sunburn and happiness. And as we sat, looking out onto the silent ripples, I thought to myself ‘I wish I could stay here forever’. We had long bouts of philosophical conversation broken every few seconds with laughter and eventually fading into long, comfortable silences. He could speak to me without saying a word. When we went back to school the next week, we couldn’t help smiling every time we saw one another. 
But towards the end of our freshman year in high school, we all changed. Johan and I were still close but I missed our carefree, ephemeral days. He was sinking further and further into himself. He never smiled. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the voice of his mother on the phone on the last night of his normal life. The only important person in my life had tried to take his life. For hours, no thoughts crossed my mind. My life was over. I tried to blame anyone and everyone and everything. I wanted to wipe him out of my life. No love was worth this much pain. I sat on the foot of my bed, hunched over, staring at the telephone. More than anything, I wanted to forget what his mother had said; I wanted to forget him. Yet as a week of sleepless nights passed, I began to miss him, and knew I had to see him again. 
The first time I entered his ward, I was immediately repulsed by the sickeningly clean smell of the hospital halls. When I walked into his room, I was shocked by its white sparseness. He was not even allowed sheets on his bed because he could have used them to hang himself. He was waiting nervously in the corner for my reaction. We sat in silence for a long time. I remember screaming at him helplessly in my head, ‘How could you do this to me?’. I felt the rift between us grow larger as he drew my face towards him, but when that old, benevolent smile broke out on his face, I felt as though I could never love anyone as much as I loved him.