The Door He Doesn’t See

My consciousness drifts into space.
Black matter surrounds me, endless, silent.
Nothing but darkness until I begin to inch toward a 3D rendering of a box.

The space is narrow, long, and deep, yet short in width.
Inside, I observe a friend confined. The space reveals itself as a bathroom,
but not just any bathroom.
A place that forces him to face himself.

Mirrors line every wall except the one with the door.
He turns, panning across the small, isolating room,
only to be confronted by his own reflection.
He is screaming.

I shift my perspective, inching toward the right side,
studying him like a specimen under a microscope.
Relentless.
Precise.

I zoom out, panning left.
Harder.
I view him as though replaying a CAD rendering,
ensuring every detail is captured correctly.

Dissecting the space, the objects that confine it.
Trying to understand why.

Is he waiting for someone to find him?
Trying to distract himself from what he sees?
Releasing anger, frustration?
Or does he keep turning left, right, straight
because he craves someone to blame,
someone to lean on,
yet finds no one he trusts to witness him in his darkest hour?

Still, he turns.
And every time, he is met with himself.
Yet he fails to realize
if he only turned completely,
he could leave.

The door is right there.
A sliver of light seeps through the cracks.
There is always a way out.

But I wasn’t meant to see him escape.
Maybe I never will.