The Door

They’re crouching outside the door, calling to you, “Let us in.”

You love them and hate them at the same time. You want to; the desire is there. The fun, the excitement, the thrill calls you. But, you know the guilt, the anguish, the self-loathing that will be a result. It would be best if you did something else to get your mind off of the scratching at the door, the niggling at the senses, the whispered enticements.

“It will feel good.” “Come on, who could it hurt?”

You walk to the door and stare at it, listening, wavering. Turning, you sit with your back against it.

“Should I?”

“Yes…” they say, with excitement.

“No,” you hear with compassion.

You look at the doorknob, waffling.

“Come on, let us in. You know you want to.”

You get up and put your hand to the knob.

“Yes, yes.”

Quietly, you hear your name. Then, the kind voice says, “Read it.”

“No, don’t read it! Come and play,” urgently, they call out. “Don’t listen to him.”

You walk to the table and pick up the book. You know where to find it—near the beginning.

“Did he really say that? Come on, come with us.”

You open it to the beginning and turn the first page and the second.

“Please, read it,” he says again.

You glance at the door, book in hand, page open. The struggle is great. You look down at the book—the words stare you in the face.

“…sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”

You stare back at the door. What will you do?

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