The Door I Refused

I kept thinking about the crushed house sketch. Whoever drew it expected the walls to survive, and I hated how quickly Felix reduced that hope under his shoe. Tamsin was already gone when the ambulance moved. Now the trap has a body inside it, and I cannot pretend the photographs are merely paperwork.

The envelope with Felix’s name is still unopened. I want it badly enough to hate myself for wanting it. If I open it, I will have chosen the next piece of the conspiracy without any excuse left. If I leave it sealed, I can pretend I am still refusing on my own terms. That distinction is thinner than I want, but tonight I am using it.

I feel most afraid when I am calm. The nurse securing the second card, Marika holding the affidavit papers, the rain finding the roof above my borrowed room: all of it could become safety, but none of it belongs to me. I know exactly how dangerous that hope is.

I keep my hand on the camera case like a childish promise that evidence will be enough. The truth is uglier. Proof has already pushed me toward people who arrange other people’s endings, and I still want to see the next photograph. That want is the door Felix knows I cannot help choosing.