Platonic

A short story by Lau Wierdsma

I didn’t choose this place; it was chosen for me. In my old room, I lay on the floor curled up in a ball with my hands covering my ears as the noise of somebody rummaging through the cutlery drawer on the other end of the building shattered me to pieces. In private conversations I often froze, my entire system halted from the sounds of a housemate passing by in the hallway that ran along the walls of my shrinking life, my unfinished thoughts left hanging in the air like a question mark. When others were around, I avoided the kitchen, bathroom, and toilet because my body simply couldn’t hold space for it and my head hurt and my lungs ached and from my stiff fingertips to the tips of my toes all I could feel was endless fatigue. I felt the walls shuffling in on me until I was enclosed and had nowhere to go. Then one day as I summarised it all to a social worker, she pulled me by the sleeve and said: Lau, this isn’t a life – we have to get you out of here. So now it all rides on this new place that was chosen for me.

The keys are clutched in my left hand. The metal feels cold but refreshing. Under my right arm, I’ve got the dog plushie (the one from Ikea). It is soft and squishy.
I am standing in the entrance of my new apartment. It’s got no personality yet, it is grey and bare with nothing on the floor or walls. On the left side of the hallway there is a bedroom and a bathroom, on the right a storage space. But I decide to skip those on my tour today. Instead, I make my way to the end of the hall with a tranquil anticipation. Something inside me flutters. I give the keys and the dog a light squeeze. The hallway is short but feels long in its darkness. Once I enter the living room, light floods in. The windows let in a glimpse of the bright day outside. I feel a warm tingle of nerves and excitement. I pull the dog closer for a squeeze. I hold back a smile, the emotions tugging at my face. I am sure if you saw me now, you would see my eyes twinkle. You would not be able to contain your excitement any more than I can. And you would tell me how much I deserve this and how things will be better from now. I take a deep breath. A breath of fresh air for a new beginning. I can see it all play out in front of me: in the right corner, my hobby station with books, music, and art. In the left corner, games and movies with friends. I circle my way through the room (anti-clockwise, as I always do) and set up pieces of furniture in my mind. Over in the corner by the kitchen, the extendable dining table that is currently in storage. And finally, a place for sentimental items. A place to portray and honour all that is important to me.

At this image, something inside me shifts. My fingers twitch and I find myself nervously tapping the keys with my left index finger. My grip on the dog in my right arm tightens. I try to stay in the living room a little longer. I try to linger in this space and all its promises. But eventually I cannot postpone it anymore. My mouth feels dry, my hands clammy. Hot flashes roll over me like tidal waves. I walk to the doorway with a sinking feeling in my stomach, a feeling of heavy lead dragging down my entire body. I stand in the doorway, in between those two spaces. With great resistance, I force myself to face the front door. I force myself to stare and stare and stare until reality sets in.

Because the reality is, you will never cross that threshold. You will never come knocking on that door. You will never see me in my promised land. And for the first time in my new place, I feel tears streaming down my face.