A Short Play Entitled: “Yes, I’ve Definitely Locked the Door”

CAST:

• You, an otherwise capable human being brought low by paranoia.
• The Front Door, smug and unreadable.
• The Keys, supporting role, crucial to the plot, uncooperative.
• Your Brain, a chaotic neutral force.
• The Street, the unforgiving stage upon which this drama unfolds.

SCENE ONE: THE DEPARTURE

You stand just outside your house. Bag slung over shoulder. Coat fastened. Face set with intent. You have places to be. Trains to catch. Schedules to honour.

With a satisfying click, the door closes behind you. You pat your pockets. Keys? Yes. Phone? Obviously. Wallet? Present and accounted for.

You walk down the street with confidence. You’re five steps away when it starts.

Your Brain:

“Did you lock the door?”

Of course you did. You remember doing it. You think. Probably. Didn’t you?

You slow your pace. One foot continues its stride while the other hesitates, like a man who’s suddenly remembered he’s left the oven on, the iron plugged in, and possibly a candle burning beside a curtain made of petrol-soaked crepe paper.

Your Brain (louder now):

“You didn’t check it. You just… walked away. Like a fool.”

You do a casual glance back at the house. Nothing amiss. The door looks closed. But you know that doesn’t mean anything. Doors can look closed and still be ever-so-slightly ajar. The breeze of chaos blows through gaps only your imagination can perceive.

SCENE TWO: THE TURNAROUND

Now eight paces from the house, you’ve fully stopped. You could keep walking, push through the doubt, trust your past self. But you don’t. Because—let’s be honest—your past self is a known liability. They’ve forgotten bags, birthdays, entire appointments. They can’t be trusted with security.

You turn around. Slowly. Casually. As if to the untrained eye, you’re simply admiring the local architecture. You rehearse your story in case anyone sees:

“Just had to pop back—left my… umbrella. Yes. Even though it’s July and I don’t own one.”

You return to the door. Stare it down. Grip the handle. Pull. Locked. Solid. No give. Not even a wobble. You nod, satisfied.

You step away again.

Your Brain:

“But did you really test it? Or did you just convince yourself you did?”

SCENE THREE: THE SECOND CHECK

You sigh, defeated. Return again. This time, with greater commitment. You jiggle the handle with excessive force, as though attempting to break in. You hope the neighbours aren’t watching. Or worse—they are, and this is the fifth time this month you’ve done this, and they now refer to you privately as “That One With The Lock Anxiety.”

You test it once more. You know it’s locked. You’ve felt it.

But now a deeper horror creeps in.

Your Brain:

“What if you locked it… but didn’t close it properly?”

You close your eyes. Breathe. This is madness. The door is closed. It must be closed. You clearly remember pushing it shut. The weight of it. The satisfying click. You know you did it.

Probably.

SCENE FOUR: THE Resolution (or Something Like It)

You walk away for the third time, muttering to yourself like a person who’s been slightly too long without social contact. This time, you don’t look back. You can’t. That way lies madness.

Still, twenty minutes later, on the bus, you will turn to your phone camera as a makeshift mirror and ask yourself, with the expression of a haunted Edwardian ghost:

“Did I check it properly? Or did I imagine checking it?”

The door is locked. Of course it is.

You’ll still think about it all day.

CURTAIN.

Encore performances available daily. Times vary. No ticket required. Mental peace not guaranteed.