beige, lilac, grey

Doors slammed so hard that the hinges left cracks around them in the wall. Peeling paint, grey, covering old pastel lilac that had been forgotten, hidden. Light brown door, beige, oh, the poor door. Slammed so hard the crack could be heard through the neighborhood. Poor neighbors. The walls couldn’t contain the screaming that erupted from inside, in childhood bedrooms, small hands, larger hands, growing hands pushing against light brown doors. A scattered heartbeat, a fear so large it engulfed me, a childhood, a growing child, a teenager. My hands pressed so hard that fingerprints left their wake, invisible, but they’re probably still there to this day. Hands weren’t enough, a child is only so strong, a teenager slightly stronger, but nothing compared to a grown man. Pressing, shoulder pressing, arm, side, body, back pressing with feet planted on light brown carpet, beige, fighting for traction. Full body pressing against the door to stop it from opening, heartbeat in my throat, I could taste it. I could taste the pulse, could hear it, timing itself along with the stomping headed towards light brown doors. There wasn’t anything to do besides press, push, and taste the pulse along with the salt that dripped from my eyes. A child is only so strong, and I was not. With all my might pressing into wood, monkey print socks grasping the light brown carpet for traction, for anything, it wouldn’t amount to much. Monkey print socks sliding against light brown carpet, body jamming into the space between the grey, no, lilac, or both, wall— and the light brown door. After that, the child, the teenager, me, today, at the age of 24, would not be stronger than a grown man. A part of me is still pressed into the grey, once lilac, colored wall. If you looked close enough you could find different versions of me there, I’m sure.