The Closet
by Doug Dawson
He listened to
the sound of rain on the roof. It sounded to him
like crackling, and he imagined a raging fire
above his head. He couldn't catch fire himself
because he was soaked in perspiration. He'd run
until he was out of breath and ended up where he
thought they wouldn't be looking for him - the
one place he couldn't stand - a closet. There he
sat, breathing hard, back against the wall, his
legs tucked up against his chin, his hands flat
on the floor, cold sweat running down his
forehead and back. His breathing was so loud he
imagined that anyone who stopped outside the door
could hear it. He pictured himself as a steam
locomotive, making that "chhh chhh chhh"
sound he remembered from an old Western movie.
His heart was pounding so hard he feared it might
burst, and it seemed his blood was boiling, like
a soup in a cauldron that witches dump bats’
wings into. He hated being alone this way and
trapped, but there was no other choice. He
wondered how much time he had until he was caught.
The day had started well enough. He did a few
chores, stopped to talk to his closest friends,
even had lunch with one of them. How had it come
to this - running away, forced to hide in one of
the enclosed spaces he feared so much? Pride and
his big mouth had been his undoing. He'd never
joined that group before, had always stuck with
people he could keep up with, people his own
speed. It was when they teased him that he made
his fatal mistake, told them he'd give it a go.
Maybe he did it because he was small, because he
felt he had to prove himself. Whatever the reason,
he regretted his mistake.
He was also afraid of the dark, but now it seemed
like the lesser of two evils. He imagined himself
lost in the vast darkness of an old mine for days
on end, everyone he knew crying for him, begging
him to come out. In spite of his fear he longed
for a total darkness he could disappear into,
never to be found, but beams of yellow light
flooded in through the keyhole and under the door.
His heart beat louder now, and he wondered how
much more he could take, how long before he
started to cry or became panicky and ran out,
sure to be caught. He moved his head slightly and
saw the table lamp, its light streaming through
the keyhole, hitting him in the eye like a bullet.
He leaned to look out the keyhole, felt something
wet dripping onto his hand and pictured himself
hiding under a table, the blood from a dead man's
head dripping off the edge of the table, onto him,
like another scene from a movie. He heard
footsteps. Somebody said "I think he ran
into this room," right outside the door,
then "he wouldn't hide in there, would he?"
The door swung open and a figure nearly twice his
size reached in, feeling blindly among the long
coats hanging there. The hand found his face and
his older sister said "Tag - you're it!"
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