I don’t want to go in there.
I don’t want to and you can’t make me.
I don’t even want to open the door.
That door hasn’t been opened in…
I like the way that door looks, closed—no, I don’t.
I like the way the hallway looks with that door closed.
The other doors—open, closed, it doesn’t really
matter to me, but that door—
please don’t make me say it.
I know what’s behind that door.
I know what’s supposed to be there, anyway.
I know what was there before,
back when the door was open,
Is it there still?
Is there anything else there now?
I don’t care—I know what’s supposed to be there.
I’ve seen it before, so why should I bother?
No, I didn’t hear a noise.
I know what’s in that room—there’s nothing in that room.
What would there be to make noise?
What kind of—you know what? It doesn’t even matter.
There’s nothing there. It was just your imagination,
playing tricks on you.
Or it was you playing tricks on me.
Either way, just shut up about it.
There’s nothing behind that door.
Nothing but memories. And who the hell needs those.