The Trapped

57

57

- S U T T E R -

11.21.16 // 8:37 p.m.

I USE MY HAND to shield my eyes from the heavy raindrops as I walk around the old house. I creep slowly to avoid slipping and look for a way inside as the leaves in the trees rattle against each other. It's too cold and my thin sweatshirt is doing nothing to keep me warm.

Blaire use to always wear this sweatshirt.

I clear my head of any thoughts and focus on the task at hand: getting into this stupid house. When I reach the end, I turn a corner to see nothing but the blank exterior wall of the house; no windows nor any doors, just a bleak, brown wall that stretches about forty feet.

I sigh in defeat as I begin to walk the length of the wall, running my hand along the peeled paint on the house. The soil is soft beneath my feet as I pad across it a little too quickly. I take a step too fast and slip, falling on something hard and shallow, cursing under my breath as I rub my behind.

I stand up and begin to walk again before I stop and turn back around. I furrow my eyebrows as I examine where I fell. When I step on it, there is a hollow sound that responds. Realizing there is some kind of platform under the soil, my heart rate begins to pick up.

I crouch down and use my hands to dig until I come in contact with something wooden. I dig some more, finding a metal handle bar that feels cold against my fingertips. With my heart beating fast in my chest, I pull on the handle bar, but it does not budge. I pull again, harder this time, but it still does not open.

I stand up and begin stomping as hard as I can against the rickety wood. The handle breaks and the small, wooden door falls off of the rusted hinges. When the dust falls away, I can see nothing, but darkness. I place my hand on my mouth to keep from throwing up as butterflies begin to beat around in my stomach.

I take a deep breath, shake off my nerves, and with no other choice, I jump in.

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