One, Two, Three

One day, I will stand up and walk out of here. I will bend my head forward, grip the arms of the chair with my weak hands, and push my body upwards. I will balance on the balls of my feet. I will waver a little at first, but become steady after a few seconds. I will take a deep breath, lift my chest up high, and exhale. I will bend my right knee, lift my leg, and take one step. I will bend my left knee, lift my leg, and take another step. I will glance to my left, to my right. I will make fists and begin to swing them at my sides. I will twist my torso, bend my right knee. At the count of three, I will run out of the door in front of me. That white door. That peeling, wooden door. That impossible door in front of me. One. Two. Inhale. Exhale. Three.

Gone.

One day.
But not today.

Maybe tomorrow.