I started writing this like the day after the “Gold Key” prompt and I has taken me this long to finish and get it up. But I didn’t give up!
Slowly she pulled out the drawer. If she pulled too fast it would squeak. She knew because her mother used this drawer often, not caring about the squeak.
Inch by pain staking inch she finally got it open enough to reach her intent. A gold key. Well, not real gold, just painted a goldish color, worn off at the teeth and circular finger hold. Annually her mother would repaint it, but it had only been 4 months and it already looked rough.
Gently she lifted it from its nest of papers and slipped it into her bluejeans pocket. She considered shutting the drawer but decided it would be too risky to have to close and open and close it again. mother won’t come upstairs before I get back she thought and stealthy exited the parents room.
A few moments later she stood if front of The Door. It was just like all the others in the house, a light medium brown with paneling. She had always thought that it was a linen closet and had never bothered to try open it. But then, one day, she had watched her mother furtively unlock it and walk in, closing the door behind her. Her dad made supper that night and they were forced to yell really loud before she came out.
After that, she was more attentive to the comings and goings through The Door. Often, almost daily, her mother would slip though it, but only on a few occasions, after the first time, did they have to yell for her.
Now, today, she would find out what was behind that door. She dug in to her pocket and retrieved the key, her anticipation growing as she slipped it into the lock and turned. Only a small click indicated her success, and the doorknob turned with ease. She opened it a crack and slipped into the room beyond.
The room beyond, for those of you who are wondering, is an artist’s studio. For me, it is not real. My inspiration for this story came from several sources. We had a linen closet that was fun to play in and was somewhat mysterious, but we were mostly forbidden from entering it. I’ve seen multiple real and tv show versions of artist studios and lofts, and an artist is a small part of a story I’ve imagined, reimagined, and “lived.”
This started out as a really sad and depressing story that would have ended happily-ish, but I’ve discovered that I don’t really like writing sad and depressing so I wrote this instead.