Trapped: A Short-Short Story

Rain pounds harshly against the window, waking me from fever dreams. As I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, I can’t help but re-live everything I just imagined—my fears chasing me at every turn. I realize I have been crying. Fresh tears rest beneath my eyelashes. I angrily wipe them away.

The storm rages outside, and thick tree branches scratch against the wall of my room. The noise hurts my ears, so I pick up a thin pillow, pressing it to my face to quiet the sound. It blocks out nothing, and I groan, realizing that going back to bed will be impossible at this point.

My throat feels dry, so I decide to try and sneak through the house to get a glass of water. I get out of bed and slowly turn the door handle. It’s locked. Of course the door is locked. I should have remembered. Every single night for as long as I have lived here, been trapped here, all doors in the house get locked as soon as the clock strikes midnight. There is no escape. If you don’t get to your room on time and keep quiet, you get punished. I’ve heard the screams at night, so I know it must be bad. I never plan to find out for myself.

But my throat burns so bad. If I don’t get water soon, I’m going to lose it.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice raspy against the door frame.

There is no response. I shake the handle a few times, hoping to attract attention from him. The one who always wanders the hall to make sure we are following the rules.

“I need water, please. I need water. I don’t feel well,” I shout. My heart pounds in my chest.

Through the thick door trapping me from the rest of the house, I hear footsteps make their way toward me. A fist raps against the door, and I jump back in fear. I scramble, and my back hits one of the metal posts of my bed, cold seeping through my skin. I wait for him to say something.

I stare at the doorknob with rapt attention.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

But no words come.

Instead, the door swings open on creaky hinges, and a shadow steps into the room. I know what’s coming. I try to crawl away. Back. Anywhere except toward what I know is about to happen.

I made a noise.

I disturbed the peace of night.

And I am about to be punished for it.

A hand reaches toward me, only I can’t see the face it’s attached to. I am yanked from the floor. I try to fight him, but there is no use. 

The last thing I see as I am being taken out the door and into the unknown is the moon filtering through the window as if nothing was happening, the storm having suddenly calmed.