Locking the door

There's this moment just before I put the key in the lock where I get this pang in my gut. The street lamp casts an orange glow over the outside of the door. Inside the blind is settling back in place after having been jostled about from the door opening and closing. It's dark inside where an hour earlier a warm glow emanated from the apartment within. I insert the gold key into the deadbolt, the other keys jangle in protest and I lock the door. I stuff the cluster of keys into the front right pocket of my jeans and take the first steps away from the apartment building.
Locking a door is usually about keeping unwanted people and things out, but in Bug's case, it's also about locking him in.
When I first started putting Bug to bed, before I got hired to be his caregiver, I would feel this sting of panic course through my body. It felt so vulnerable to secure the deadbolt of his front door, knowing I was locking a disabled person in their home.
There were times I'd get in my car and cry. The tears would flow and most of the time I was crying because of a feeling more than any thoughts going through my mind. I'd shed tears at Bug's bravery for having the self awareness that he needed to live alone and one of the consequences of this decision was to lay in bed, alone, until someone came to unlock the deadbolt in the morning. I'd cry sometimes at the feeling of 'How could I just leave him like that?'. There was a helplessness in me that couldn't change this situation for Bug, not that he ever asked me to change it.
It was an overwhelming sense of compassion for him.
Bug is a true symbol of bravery.
Bug has a specific routine before getting into bed and many evenings once I've turned the last light out, I'll glance back to Bug's bedroom where the TV flickers light over the walls and the muffled dialogue makes it's way around the now dark apartment. I stand there for the briefest of moments grappling with the conflicted feelings of leaving. I know Bug has chosen to live alone, but standing there in the darkened space I'm filled with that niggling sense from the first times I fled his apartment so he wouldn't see my cry.
These days I walk the six minutes it takes to get back to my apartment and it's the time needed for that slick of guilt to slip away.
I can hear Bug's last words to me.
'Don't forget to turn out the lights and lock the door.'
I usually retort,' You tell me that every time.'
'It's my job,' he fires back and lets out a loud chuckle.
I'm reminded that the locking of the door brings Bug a sense of security.

Until the next time...