. He'd arrived at the door many times. His fingers would always wrap around the **** with surety and little hesitation.
He’d pause... Just to relish the initial sting of the coolness in the brass and let it soothe the creaks in the bones and skin on calloused fingertips.
When he was ready, he’d twist but his wrist wouldn't work. Like a hinge that hasn’t seen grease, it wouldn't comply. It would freeze because he is afraid...
He knows well what awaits beyond the threshold of this doorway. He knows of what he craves that calls like a siren beyond the door.
But yet... He’s afraid. Because what he wants the most scares him so.