Trapped

Author's Note: This is the short story I wrote for the final. The goal was to depict a defense mechanism and work on characterization. There's really no background info you need to know, so... enjoy!

The walls were moving.

That was the first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes. The walls were moving.
They were rippling, changing, the fading and peeling white paint creeping closer and closer so slowly it almost seemed that it wasn’t moving at all. He narrowed his eyes at the attackers, jerking himself into an upright position and hugging his knees to his chest. They were trying to trick him, but he wouldn’t let them. He could see the movement, and he refused to be pulled into
their deception.

Getting up, he stumbled to the center of the room and dropped back to his knees. Staring. The walls noticed his anger and faltered, ending their movement for a moment. The boy let his breath out in a harsh puff of satisfaction and heaved to his feet.

He walked to the door and tried to open it.

The handle was stuck again.

It was always stuck, but that was only to be expected. It was conspiring with the walls, he was sure, and so of course it would resist him. He sneered at it, twisted it one last time before letting it go, assuring it that he was not done.

Moving over to the opposite wall, he pressed his back against it and slid down until he was sitting on his heels, his arms crossed before his chest. The walls – they were the apparent enemy – were his worst challenger and adversary. But the boy knew that they were by no means the only one. He settled in, waiting. GLARING at the door and ready for any move it might make. It was nervous, he could tell, and refused to stir for a long time. He waited for the inevitable. Sooner or later it would relax, and he would have to show it his superiority again.


He was right. The door opened.
He flinched and stiffened, instantly regretting the show of weakness. Too much of that, and the walls might get ideas. They might begin to think they were getting to him.
NO. Can’t let that happen. Surrender is impossible, of that he was certain.

Now the door was trying to tempt him into submission. It was a regular ploy, and he supposed that the door thought he would someday succumb. It was a valid thought. The food did smell good. And he did always eat it, in time, as soon as he made sure the walls were pausing in their attention. It was hard work, watching them all the time, but necessary work as well.

Then the voice came. The horrible thing always did. The most human thing the walls ever did, it crept into the crevices of his mind and his heart and struck deep into his soul. It enthralled and yet it repulsed. It twisted and coiled around and around and his body and chipped away at his carefully crafted defenses.

……… can ……… you ……… hear ……… me

His eye twitched, and he firmed his mouth. Closing his eyes tight, he swallowed, a hard gulp ricocheting in silence the echo left behind. As the floor below him creaked, his eyes snapped back open, wide and frantic. Focusing on the door, he forced himself to still once more.

……… can ……… you ……… hear ……… me

He refused to answer. He would never succumb to it. Defeat was out of the question.

………look………at………me

The boy trembled, almost imperceptibly, and tried not to blink. Mustn’t show weakness – mustn't let the walls win.

The voice gave up, as it always did. The door closed, and the resulting BOOM echoed throughout the room. He smiled, exultant, and stood up. Walking over to the closed door, he yanked at the handle, ensuring its security and establishing his control. The handle was always stuck, he knew, and that was good, safe, right. Imagine – a door not stuck! The very thought was absurd – ludicrous, even – and a small smirk appeared on his face. He made certain that it lingered just long enough to let the room see it.

He was laughing at them – didn’t they see? – they had no power over him. It was he who ruled here, HIS door that stuck, HIS walls, HIS food – oh!
He remembered the food quite suddenly, and tentatively – very tentatively – the boy came to touch it with tremendous caution, and to jerk roughly from its terrible strangeness. He reached down a second time and lifted it to his mouth.

When it was gone, he stood, wiped his mouth on his arm, and paced to the corner. Leaning into it, he slid down until he was crouching low on his feet. He wrapped his arms around himself and settled in. His eyes darted around the room.

It was starting again. The walls were gaining back their courage. They inched, bit by bit, less slow, less fearful, less caring of the belligerence of the boy. He shuddered in the wake of their newfound power.

The walls kept sliding, penning him in and driving him toward the center of the room. Frantic, he dashed to the door and rammed his body against it.


It didn’t even flinch.

He backed up and, letting out a war cry, sprinted forward. When his second assault had no effect, he hammered his arms on the door, sobbing, crying, begging, screaming out his anger and fear. He couldn’t breathe – his head was spinning – his vision was fading –

His body slumped downward. His hands scrabbled to keep their body erect, but to no avail. His head drooped to his chest.


The door flew open.


He drew in a shallow breath, nearly unconscious. A puff of air brushed his skin in return – then another– then another.


The air gathered and pushed at him, lifting his head. He moaned – of course the air would join the conspiracy! – and slumped in defeat, all his fight gone. The air solidified under his torso and legs and raised him up easily. He floated through the room and was set down on a bed.


He watched frantically as straps fastened themselves around his limbs. He sensed the proximity of the walls nearly closed around him. They were going to win, he realized. They were going to win, and he was helpless against them.


He didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to give them the absolute power of triumph. He closed his eyes, and gently drifted into oblivion.

---

The walls were moving.

That was the first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes.



Mimic Lines (from The Black Cat)

“I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others.” (86)

They inched, bit by bit, less slow, less fearful, less caring of the belligerence of the boy.

“Pluto – this was the cat’s name – was my favorite pet and playmate.” (85)

The walls – they were the apparent enemy – were his worst challenger and adversary.

“…and gradually – very gradually – I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence…” (88)

…but tentatively – very tentatively – the boy came to touch it with tremendous caution, and to jerk roughly from its terrible power.