Miya Beckman is an English major with a double minor of German and Religion. They were born in Tacoma, Washington, but now resides in Roy, where there are more cows than people.
A front door made out of aluminum or vinyl stood in front of the girl. The ten year old didn’t know what doors were made out of. What mattered was the fact that her grandma was locked outside, and her little legs and fingers couldn’t reach the high lock at the top of the door. She was eleven when her older sister used her upper body strength to set the white wood closet doors against the opposite wall from where they should be. The thin wall just as white, but not as wood. She watched her sister with intent, scared that the fifteen year old would leave again to Arizona, a hot desert that was perfect for teen angst. The girl learned that doors could be ripped from their hinges. Flash forward another year to a collision in a small condo. She and the father were playing, joking, breathing happiness. She pressed her fragile body to the pliable door, her sweaty hand clutched the doorknob. Her father accidently pushed too hard, her hand was crushed between the mocha wall and the golden door knob. Age fourteen was when she used doors as shields in a house that was guarded by climbing trees. The house built on a slant, the loose lock on her bedroom opened by itself to let some fresh air in. Nothing big happened here, but over time her brain became infested with what her therapist would call depression. Eight years later, her bedroom was in a place called Roy. Her door still white, but came with vibrant purple paint sprinkled along the edges. The door guarded a haven for the woman. A haven filled with art from comic book conventions and amber string lights. The lavender vanilla candle burned as the woman curled into a fetal position. She breathed steadily while the splattered door watched.