The blunt cuts.

A cold cabin. Alone. No sound for years, save for the ocassional ring of the phone. Then a voice, calling. Vague, unclear, towards the door. With hands on the knob, shivers. Opens, to white. Without shoes, the foot hovers, hesitant. As it decends, fear grips, till it finally lands. On the unknown. The hard, cold. And the hard, cold, it travels. Up. Back into the heart. And the mind, ripping it. To shreds. The leg retracts in shock. The eyes look down. To red. Dripped over white. A trail back to the self. The hard, cold out of white. Before, hidden. No pain - the cold. The blunt, it cut. And the self realises. The origin of the voice, the head. For it had been silent outside, the voice grew. From the mind, but percieved, the door. The foot, hesitant, that gave in. The cut, deep. Not fatal. The pain, non-existant. A dull ache. Up the length, running. A step back into the cabin. The fireplace. To warm, with tea. On the sofa that served its purpose. Retracing steps. Confused, lost. But. No blame. And the self sits still and blank. Quiet. With the door left.

Open.