The Door to Dawn

The next morning I’m in my own room, perched on the edge of my own bed. My feet dangle down. I dream of the day they will touch the floor. Somehow, I believe I will be a man. The walls of my room are covered with the interconnected puzzle pieces of my collected memories. Crayon drawings of lollypop trees and popcorn clouds. Stick figures of Mom, Dad, me—standing slightly slanted in front of a house where smoke curls out of the chimney in repetitive swirls. Countless drawings of a dog I begged for but was never given. The childish drawings turn to war battles with jets firing red bullets. Soldiers fall on the battlefield with bloody holes in their chests. Others die from not having enough arms or legs. There is no mercy in my world. From the ceiling, airplane models hang. A Styrofoam ball creation of our planetary system from grade school slowly turns. I stare at this puzzle and it falls apart in front of me—becomes transparent. They are no longer in the present. I am no longer in the present. Without warning, the room itself is a relic of the past. I squeeze my eyes shut for a solid minute—until yellow lights shine beneath the lids.

When I open them it’s as if the decision was made for me. The room is normal. I dress and dump my books into my school bag. I have made a decision. I have made a decision to face the facts that a few small acts can change a person’s life. Stealing a stick of gum can lead to a life of crime. One act of kindness might end in sainthood. An innocent lie ends in corruption. I know my first small act will be to skip school. The second will be to steal.