I have held on to the key for all these years and was never brave enough to use it. Or cowardly, most would probably argue. I have held on to this key for so long as it taunted me from the dark back of the lowest drawer I could possibly put it in. I am scared to think that the only thing keeping me from using it has been the destruction I know it would leave in its wake. I am terrified of it.
I have held it in my hand. I have stared at the keyhole for hours, and hours, and hours over the course of years, and years, and years. I hate it. I hate how readily available it is, how instantly effective it would be, and how hard it weighs on my soul. I hate that I ever conjured it and I hate that I might never not have it. I hate it because the door it opens would be such an easy escape, but I know that once opened, it could never be closed again.
My toes are touching the stool and they hurt immensely, but no one’s really around to see it. How could they, I’ve shut all the blinds.
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