It had been so mysterious, the door, standing so innocuously in the back of his mind, never even noticed until events had gone past the point of return. Spiraling into the madness of reaction, thought having fled, instinct all that mattered, and he had stumbled through before he realized it. The blood had dripped just so from his hands, scattering drops of life over the tile like so much paint. An ordinary dark red, colored by his perceptions into an unreal neon, impossible to miss, never to be gotten rid of. He could still see the stains, there. That one, perfect arch on the wall, an artist's stroke if ever there was one, marred only by the smear his hand had left when he had tried, desperately, to rub it off.
The door loomed, now, bigger every day. The latch was broken, and try as he might to keep it closed, to bar anything else from entering his waking thoughts, it slipped open. Again and again, unlocking itself, throwing everything aside. His rational mind fled at the sight, his body responding, taking up the slack, pushing to close it again before anything else escaped. And he was successful. At first.
They knew, though. They had found out. And they kept finding out. Strangers, even, people who couldn't possibly know, but they did. He could see it, in their eyes, in the way they turned their heads to look at him before passing. Even the sweet smile of Angela was not so inviting and welcome, anymore. She knew, too, and it was only a matter of time before she told someone. Only a matter of time. It had only been a matter of time for all of them, each person that had gone beyond that door.
He could see beyond it, now, into the black of the abyss, for it was never fully closed, any more. It waited for him, the gap opening a little wider, everyday. Inches at a time, when he wasn't looking. But he caught peeks, and they frightened him. He knew those eyes. The grey ones, peering out at him from the endless darkness. They looked shocked, surprised, almost comically round. But the question wasn't funny. Why? He could almost hear it, the question burning in those deep set eyes, never to be answered. Because there was no answer. He had stumbled through the wrong door, that was all.
More eyes, now, everyday there seemed to be a set that he knew, waiting for him behind that door, some angry, some fearful, most shocked, but all asking that one, simple question that he had no answer to, all of them waiting, waiting for some reason, for some sense in a senseless act. He knew, that someday, that door would be everything. Nothing left for him but to stand on the threshold and stare into the darkness that was looking back at him with a million eyes, pleading and demanding and questioning. And Angela would be there, too. Pretty blue eyes, sweet, loving, expressive eyes. Asking why.