And so, there I stood, in front of my old high school. I had graduated some 20 years prior, and I’d never been back since. Truth be told, I’m not really sure why I was standing there then. How did I get here? Why was I here? No matter. As I walked toward the main entrance, I felt the brisk fall breeze bite through my zippered hoodie. Chilly, I shuddered as I pushed on the handle of the big glass door. It didn’t budge. Maybe it’s like that old Far Side cartoon with the school for the gifted. I tried pulling on the handle. Nothing. I was locked out.

This didn’t make sense. It was a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of October. School had to be in session, but I couldn’t get in. It was at that moment that I also realized there was no one else around me. The school foyer was utterly deserted, with all but one of the overhead lights turned on. And that one flickered eerily. Like it was about to burn out. Odd. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to get in there so badly. Even so, I felt compelled to get inside. I had to.

I walked around to the side of the building, so I could try the other doors next to the main auditorium and music room. As I followed the path next to the school, I also realized that no one was on the sidewalk either. No one walking their dog, pushing a stroller, or trying to get from this place to that. No teens smoking cigarettes in the back alley. Looking around, I realized I was all alone. The music room doors wouldn’t open either. Still locked out.

Feelings of anxiety poured over me. My heart pounded out of my chest. Why was this making me feel so uneasy? Was I so afraid? Frantically, I raced toward the other entrances: the back door, the two lower doors by the breezeway, the side entrance by the main gym. All closed. Still locked out. I could not get in.

As I circled my way back around the front door, the main entrance, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by this sense of despair, of overwhelming isolation and desperation. I tried the big glass doors again. Nothing. Just then, I spotted the janitor slowly emerging from one of the dimly lit hallways, making his way into the foyer and into my field of view.

I banged on the glass doors as hard as I could.

“HEY! YOU OVER THERE! HELLO! LET ME IN! THE DOOR IS LOCKED AND I CAN’T GET IN!”

At first, he didn’t look up. He continued mopping the floor in slow, deliberate arcs. Left, then right. Right, then left.

“OPEN UP! PLEASE!”

He stopped. Did he hear me? Slowly tilting his head toward me, he returned his wet mop back in its bucket with a distinct sploosh. He raised a single hand, his index finger outstretched, slowly and deliberately waving it side-to-side like a metronome. “No,” he mouthed silently.

What did this all mean? Yes, this was my high school, but I had graduated from here 20 years ago. What happened more than two decades ago, in those locker-filled hallways, in chemistry class, during free block… they were all in the past. They were nothing more than memories at this point. I could not go back and relive them, to experience them again. I could not go back to right any wrongs, making what might have been better decisions. What’s done was done. Finished.

The past is behind us.

Just then, the janitor forcefully pointed toward me. “Me?” I mouthed, gesturing toward myself. He shook his head, continuing to thrust his finger in my direction. No. Wait. He wasn’t pointing at me; he was pointing behind me. Mouth agape, knees shaking, lip quivering, with the crisp autumn breeze sending chills through my very being, I slowly turned around.

… to be continued?

For more short stories, read 198 Days Later about a friend offline. Or Comparison about an interaction at the playground.