The locked chamber

She stared at the door, terrified of opening it. She had the key he had given to her, which included no warnings and no instructions, contrary to all of the fairy tales she had read and conventional wisdom. He just asked her to take her time to get to know his house, at her own pace, so that she could enjoy herself and be ready to open the last chamber, the only one that’s locked.

Her heart, her little fickle heart, what was it telling her? She raised the key to eye level till it blocked sight of the door.
Open the door.
You are the one who holds the key.
In her mind, all the tales of gory massacres, dark chambers of torture and death, were racing like a film reel with the bloodiest images.
This is not a fairy tale, nor a dream. Can’t you feel the door breathing?
She waited by the door, holding the key, unable to bring herself to unlock it. She forgot the rest of the house – the places where they had played and laughed and made love – torn as she was with her doubts and fears. Until one day she crawled her way out of the house, tired, her clothes in tatters after an eternity waiting in front of the locked door. The sun blinded her, she started to see the state she was in. She loathed him and the key, threw it away and walked as quickly as she could from the house, and she felt breathing life again. She’d start afresh, new beginnings.
Can fear lead to freedom?
She’d deny she was afraid. It was just a dream. No need to behead him.
He was behind the locked door, waiting, alive with the hope that she would open it, dying further with every step she took away from him.

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