TKAO Pt 2 "Afterward, my mother took up the practice of walking meditation."

She slowly paced the hallway outside my bedroom and Emily was right behind her, trying to imitate our mother as a show of care. My sister had no idea what meditation even was, or who she was anymore. Her actions were there, but her face was devoid of any emotion except for the not so briefs moments of horror and worry. In a sense, she had taken up the walking to meditate through the intense moments that arose when she thought of that truck.

I still don't know what really happened. After I head that voice, I remember being here in my bed and nothing else. Any time I try to recall the events, my mind starts to burn and my vision gets clouded by thousands of bees.

Since then, I haven't left my room or done any of my normal activities. I haven't done much but sleep, and take small bites that are force fed. I try to appease my parents and worried sister, who worry that all I do really is sleep now.

When I sleep, I do dream. The dreams I have are the only connection to my memory of that truck and the day I found it. As soon as I close my eyes and let my mind rest, the cold and silvery voice slips back into my consciousness as it whispers commands into my sleeping ears. As much as I have seen, I never return to that day in my dreams but I go past it.

I'm living in a world that is between our world and the next, and I've been entrusted with they key. During my waking moments, I can see it shimmering underneath the layers of my skin. It's trapped in my finger and burns and itches, begging to be turned.

When my eyes close, the key comes out into the darkness of my mind with such brilliance I could never get lost. I walk through the empty hallways that never end, walking from door to door to see how the key reacts. Not a single door has gained my interest, nor the interest of the key. Most are old and wooden, splintered and aged over time and by the attempts of others to break through. Yet I know that none of these are it. I don't even attempt to knock on their sullen surfaces. So I keep walking through the hallways, and pass by doors of metal and doors of stone whose cold surfaces carry only a slight condensation from the dewy breath of those who have walked here before.

I know the door that I am looking for, and when I stand before it I know my key will turn.

Each night I get closer to finding it, but every time I return to the hallways the doors are never the same.