A door squeaks upstairs. Not on the second floor, nor the third, but all the way up at the peak of my tower. My inner tower with every room of every floor full of memories, adventures, emotions, or lack thereof. Indeed, sometimes I just wanted to stay put, read a book, and be. Then, there were opposite times where I could have done the unnameable.
The attic door is creaking still and inching open, I can feel it. What is behind it anyway? I spit out my hot mint tea. The skeletons’ closet, that’s what. Every forbidden place in my memory I swore I would never revisit. All those skeletons were thrown in that safe oubliette. Just doing so helped me pretend they never came into existence. And now it has opened by its own volition? I can’t allow that to happen. What if the mountains of bones come rolling down the middle circular stairs and lie at my feet?
I throw the pen and paper covering my lap on the floor, jump from my balcony seat, and run up the stairs. The usual heavy chain around my neck feels light. One glance at it proves my suspicion right: the copper key to the secret closet has disappeared. Who could have taken it? I am the only one here. My tower belongs to me. No guest had ever walked down the path to it.
I make it to the attic and reach the closet. I expected its door to have burst open from the plague of skeletons behind it, but no. It’s lazily swinging back and forth, moved by an invisible breeze. With careful steps, I approach and pull it open. My fist is shaking, proof of how scared I am of the presumable mountains of bones piling in there. Only there isn’t any, not even a lump.
Alone at the black bottom, only three pieces remain: the hand that had collected, the hip that had persuaded, and the skull that had obscured. I slam the door closed. Out of sight, out of mind—literally. One day, I’ll deal with my two bones and skull, just not today.