The Black Door

"Most people feared the darkness. Some people feared, more wisely, the things within the darkness."
Angela Panayotopulos
 
The cellar door has been there as long as I can remember. Covered in ten layers of black paint that had peeled off and overlapped one after another. It's as if a wondrous beast had run its claws over the wooden surface. Just in front of the door stands the silhouette of my grandmother. With a brush in her hand in a weedy jumper, the same colour as the black paint in the bucket beside her.  For the umpteenth time, she's dabbing the brush into the bucket, and something black, pungent in odour and I'm pretty sure just as disgusting in taste, is running down it. She generously dabs a new layer onto the black door, hiding the claw marks. The old layers would always erupt in bumps, and the old woman gently peels back the chipped edges of the paint.
"Don't go near the door or you'll get dirty" she says. But I didn't think of going near it at all. I was afraid to even look at the big black door. I don't remember where, and I don't know when, but I heard a quote that unraveled a deep feeling of fear : "Smart people are most afraid of closed doors." It was so ingrained in my soul that whenever I encountered a locked door , my skin turned cold. Whether the meaning of the quote was rhetorical or direct, I saw this rectangular figure as a symbol of danger from then on. What I feared most as a child was the darkness; you never know what awaits you in it. Such was the case with the door covered in layers of black paint. You can find more than just darkness behind it. Not only did fear dwell there, but behind the paint feelings roamed. Pure in their anger, kept behind a wooden barrier, hidden from everyone else's eyes, so pure in their essence, so sincere in their nakedness. Happiness and sadness, grief and pain. The door played its role nicely, holding back the outbreaks of emotions, but sometimes the feelings could escape.
“Darling, I need a jar of strawberry jam from the cellar. Can you go?” said the figure in the black turtleneck. "Yes, of course, just a minute!" I replied. Standing at the closed door, I turn aside its handle with an eerie clang. Creaking, the door let out a cold air and the shadow of the black door covered the floor. Wrapped in a plaid, descending the row of steps, I get closer and closer to my goal, further and further away from the black door. Holding the large and cold jar in my hands, I cross the long row of basement corridors  studded with doors. I can see nothing in the corridor but the doors. I try to peer through one of the doors’ keyholes and found nothing. Out of nothing, something fills my eyes and lungs and sat on my shoulders. Covered in fear, I rush my way up, quickly returning to the warmth of the house. Setting the jar on the table, I slump my shoulders in relief. "The tea is already getting cold, dear."