keys
Words by YJ Si // Published April 19th, 2024
I’m walking. My boots crunch into the snow along the cobblestone sidewalk as I approach the apartment on the corner of a small residential intersection a short walk east from the river. I forgot my gloves today, and my hands are stuffed in my pockets.
I reach into the left breast pocket of my trench coat and hook my finger into the ring holding my keys together. I twirl it once, setting the keys to face the same direction, and clasp them tightly in my fist.
I stop in front of the enormous brown door. I’m shivering, but my fingers find the green key, inserting it so the notched side faces down and turning clockwise until the door cracks open.
It’s surprisingly light. Shockingly so, even. Though I suppose doors that were meant to be opened should never prove difficult in serving their purpose.
I flick the light on, to the left, and shut the door. I insert the key the same way, and make a full rotation counterclockwise. I kick the walls and stamp my feet on the welcome mat, knocking off the once-white snow turned brown from my trip. It leaves a mark on the wall. I hope no one notices, but I don’t care enough to wipe it off. I brush the debris off my coat and walk up the stairs to the room on the third floor.
My hands find the red key first. I once again face the notched side down, insert it into the top lock, and twist it clockwise for two cycles. After hearing two clicks, I slide it out and pick the blue key. I stick it into the lock below the knob, and twist counterclockwise, pulling on the knob as I do so. I still don’t know what the yellow key is for.
The door opens, turning toward me, and I take a step back to allow the door to swing open completely. The knob slams into the wall to the left. Poor design—the door should have more space, and the knob doesn’t even turn. Europe, I guess.
I step through the entrance and kick off my boots, continuing through the apartment until I reach the window. I toss my coat onto the floor and unclasp my necklace. Facing the window, I hear hoots and hollers in the distance as the sky turns a greyish blue. I turn the handle, and the window opens, like the door, toward me. I want to step through.
Falling — traveling downward. Losing balance. When I was four, I convinced myself my legs could handle it if I jumped down the ladder of a slide. I was invincible then — possessed by a mental toughness that was never suited for a toddler’s body.
I jumped. It wasn’t a leap of faith for me. I didn’t choose to believe it; I just did. And I was right. My legs were just fine. But I broke my arm.
I sit on the windowsill with a cigarette in my mouth and my feet hanging over the edge, and I reach for my lighter. My fingers are unsteady in the cold. I click it twice. Nothing. A third time. Sparks fly. A fourth, a fifth, and on the sixth, I cup my free hand and place it behind the flame as I light up. I inhale, and watch the soft embers glow and crawl down the stick. A soft breeze blows in my direction, and my eyes burn.
Exhale.
Clouds escape my mouth. I can’t tell the difference between the smoke and my breath in the cold air. I quickly inhale and exhale two more times for good measure, just to make sure the smoke is out. I shut my eyes, and lean back, gripping the ledge with my fingers.
When I was eleven, my father and I stood at a spot right by our house and watched the wildfires burn in the hills a few miles away. I thought we would need to pack up and leave, but my parents didn’t budge. I thought then it was to the credit of their strength and resolve to stay in a house they could finally say they owned, and I stayed too, with the pride to protect something that belonged to us. I realized later that the fire was crawling in a different direction, and that our family had nothing to worry about.
I remove the cigarette from my mouth and clear my throat. A bike bell rings. I can hear sirens in the distance. I loosen my shoulders and kick my legs, and lean on my left arm. I take another puff. I’ve got three-quarters of it left.
With the cigarette pinched between my index and middle finger, I flick the filtered end with my thumb. The ashes fall to the ground and disappear in the snow.
✺ For Elysian, Issue 7
YJ Si (he/him) is a sophomore at the University of Southern California studying philosophy, journalism, and physics. He spends his time reading, eating and playing ultimate frisbee. You can usually find him whistling old songs to everyone else's annoyance. Find YJ on Instagram @whyjay_si.
Artist Statement: Heaven - Elysium - seems always to be described as some magical location behind locked gates. What I wrote here was a reflection on my time abroad in Europe - what my afternoon routine would be after midday classes. In its own way, that solitude and tranquility was elysian, and I often reminisce on those quiet days of a snowy afternoon. Those keys were only to my apartment, yes, but they were also the keys to the safest place I had ever been - a long-term Airbnb in downtown Prague. Elysium, to me, is comfort, and it only makes sense that it should be a place I lock away when I leave it. I try to tell stories as truly as possible in my writing — as a journalist, I'm not really one for fiction, even when the writing is reflective. I truly do not know what the yellow key was for, and it's something I never ended up using. My best guess is that they were the key to something greater than what I was aware of at the time, something beyond what I was capable of comprehending. Or maybe they were just for the mailbox.
