Conversation · Door, Room #3

The door is closed.

There's still a dent in the vinyl -- where you punched it before.

Knock.

There is no answer -- it's nighttime, officer.

A young woman like this is probably out partying the night away. Drink and drugs, sweet drugs are involved. Loneliness begone...

In the Jamrock Quarter, The Paliseum for music, company and men... or the Door To The River, for death and synthetic opiates. Or, way in the East in Couron, in a starlit boîte de nuits like La Cherte... far from here and you, shivering dog.

"We should come back in the morning."

"Who is it?" A woman's voice answers -- muffled by the door.

Tired. Controlled.

"This is the police. Can we come in?"

"Come on up -- the door is open!" She shouts: "I'm drying my hair..."

Sounds like it's coming from upstairs somewhere -- you could snoop around before going up...

Somewhere not far from here the lieutenant is preparing her file. "Klaasje Amandou," he writes. You realize the detective should be here for what comes next. It could prove... dangerous to go in alone.

Run your finger across the dent.

This little depression is all you could inflict on the door.

"Why are you doing this? Don't do this to me, please!" Remember? Who was that meant for?

Knock...

White Mourning. It was mourning all along. You should've seen it coming, it was right behind her eyes...

The words still echo in the hallway...

Fucking whore.

There we go-- fucking whore. What a nice thing to say, Harry. Everything is A-Okay with you.

Just knock again.

The door feels cold.

Knock...

Caustic Echo. It was darkness all along. But you were young and it was summer. You just had to take a dive...

You're just as alone as the last time. Whatever kept you company in this world -- what kept you safe -- has left your side, never to return again.

Beauty has abandoned you in this ugliness, honcho. And then some! You cannot even remember the name of beauty; what beauty was...

You swallow, like you swallowed the last time. Whatever bitter emotion was swimming to the surface then -- and now -- subsides. Submerges. Sinks back into you.

[Leave.]

The door is closed.

Knock again.

Still no answer.

Knock again, much harder.

Still nothing.

The lieutenant gives you a quick glance.

He doesn't like where this is going.

You should punch a fucking hole in it.

"Fucking whore!"

"Hey! What is your problem?"

That felt good. Everyone is a whore. Now punch a hole in the door.

Don't. Everyone is a whore? What does that even mean? Breathe in and walk away.

Suppress the urge.

The murmur in your ears recedes slowly, your breathing normalizes. That's one lucky door.

Punch the door.

You slam your fist into the vinyl. It does not produce a hole. The door sits sturdily in the frame and your fist hurts. This was all a very good, normal thing to do.

Not to mention great exercise!

"Stop that!" The lieutenant sounds angry.

Breathe in.

You hear the murmur of blood in your ears. Your back slowly relaxes when you breathe out. That's one lucky door.

Try the handle.

This door can only be opened with a key or from the inside.

As you hold the metal you sense the warmth left there by her hand.

[Leave.]

Knock.

There is no answer.

You hear the shower being turned on, somewhere inside.

A tremendous loneliness comes over you. Everybody in the world is doing something without you.

"Beauty, don't abandon me in all this ugliness!"

The door does not care.

The door probably thinks you're a has-been loser too. You feel your funny necktie becoming tighter and tighter around your neck...