Jesse

27: Trapped in the closet

Jesse McLeod

27: Trapped in the closet

            "So where've you been?"

            The front door slammed behind me, after I walked into the house furious: jolted still with the aftershock of the first fight I had with Ian. I cast a wary glance at Harold reclined in his chair, conspicuously leering.

            "Out," I muttered coldly, the blood rushing through my veins: my heart slamming against my chest.

            "Yeah, in my fuckin' car!" he grumbled, getting to his feet. I did not want to put up with his shit tonight. "Did I say you could drive it?—You deliberately went into my room! And stole my keys, didn't you?" He was yelling now, as Harold approached me drunkenly.

            "Yes," I said, the word strained, my eyes narrowed.

            He made a snarl, and lunged toward me, grabbing my throat and shoved me against the wall. I cried out, water stinging the corners of my eyes. I felt his rancid breath blow nastily in my face, reeking of alcohol and stench. I winced, and shouted at me, still clenching my neck:

            "You know what—what you's did was wrong!? Don't ya?" he barked, spit flying now. I threw my face aside as the salvia sprayed my cheek, feeling as if I was about to gag. I had to gasp for air; I needed to get to my room. Lock the door. There I would be safe. If he didn't knock it down first.

            "YES!" I screamed, wheezing. "I'm—I'm—SORRY!"

            His gaunt eyes clawed deep into my face, and he liked his lips. "Well, sorry's not good enough!"

            Where had I heard this? Shit. I had said it. To Ian. Dammit. I was just an awful person. "No. Please—"

            Suddenly, his fist careened into my stomach and I retched, flailing as he released me, collapsing onto the floor. Panting, I sprung to my feet and thrust my aching legs into a run toward the stairs.

            "Where do…you think you're going?? Huh? GET BACK HERE!—YOU DON'T RUN AWAY FROM ME: WHEN I'M TALKIN' TO YA BOY!"

            There was a grunt, and I heard him picking something up, slinging it. My instinct was turn to see what it was; but he had thrown it too fast, with too much of a deadly force. It had been a beer bottle: an empty one. I heard the grating crash as it shattered against my head, and I saw the blood and the thousands of pieces of flying glass as I stumbled, smashed into the wall face first. Then I was gone, nothing but blackness.

            There was a faint echoing. Deranged laughter…I was slipping away…

            When I woke again, I saw nothing but blackness. I blinked rapidly, panting, my eyes bleary, and my face and back of my neck exploding with pain. Where was I? Was I even awake? Was I dead? I was dead. I was dead. I was dead. What had happened? Last I remembered…something had been thrown…It crashed into…

            My hand wandered along my backside and up my neck to my head. My fingers clasped hold of the throbbing knot and the gush of a gash, dried over with blood, and I winced. My face hurt of bruises, and my chest and stomach too. I was too afraid to look or move; I felt very stiff. I realized I was laying in something sticky. What was it?

            I could see a little better now. A crack of taunting light before me, eyelevel. Just a reach away. The darkness wasn't so dark now. I saw the stains on the carpet, smelling of putrid rust. It was my blood! I covered my mouth, revolting. I was in the closet…near the living room. Why the hell was I here?