You Can't Hurt Me

Just a really bad day

Race's hand shook as the light from his computer reflected back to his face. His report card making the shadows in the blue hue shadowed upon him. He was screwed, he was so screwed.

Welcoming him to his midterms was a giant F displayed proudly in history. He took a cold breath of the musty hair, the noise around him filling his ears, clouding his head, clouding the words he was thinking. He rubbed his hand across his face, over and over again, trying to massage his splitting headache that was growing rapidly. He could fear the grease mucking up his hair, while sweat warmed his back.

"Hey bud, what's wrong?" His dad asked concerned, holding out a cigarette. Race took a long drag of it before moving to show him the F.

His dad stared at it, the carefree enjoyment slipping away. Race felt a tear slip away with it.

"I'm so sorry." He choked, his throat swelling up while salty tears clouded his vision.

"I know bud, common."

"Please."

"Now."

Race didn't have the energy to disagree. He slowly rose from his peeling leather chair, legs filled with lead, almost tripping over them. He grasped his hair and pulled, trying to get a feeling of grounding. Everything around him moved like slime, getting smaller as the simple wooden door got bigger before him, he felt six again, getting scared at the smallest, silliest of things. And here he was, 15, haunted by a slab of wood with a peeling coat of burgundy paint, like he was staring at his own grave stone.

A wine escaped his throat, he shut his eyes, grabbing onto his dad's coat for a layer of protection against the world. He was a lamb in slaughter, follow the butcher.

Then he felt a gentle nudge, and a old door creek close.

His chest swelled up, and he opened his eyes, a mute point considering it was just as dark as it was with them closed. He struggled to get air out of his bulky throat, the airways squeezed thin and he wheezed. The wheezing got worse, and worse, and he was coughing, but the coughing just made him loose air faster and he felt like he had been ducked underwater, falling while air bubbles slowly escaped from him.

"Dad," he wheezed out. He couldn't breath, he wanted his dad to hold him and rub circles into his back while he regained a semblance of breath. Instead his lungs were squeezing against each other, his eyes were clogged with tears swelling out making his face feel salty and damp. Disgusting snot, trickling into his mouth, tasting sweet and nasty, blowing out in globs as he pathetically attempted to regain breathing.

He loosely hit the door, a small mouselike thump was his only product. So he hit harder, banging on it. He needed his dad to hear him, to save him. This time he jammed his hand into it, his hand was shocked with pain, but with it he could breath. The pain releasing him from his panic, he could feel the cloth in his hands, the ground beneath his bare feet.

This time, with a lung full of air, he hit the door, again and again. It's calming thud rang around his ears, and he could feel the tricked of sticky blood flowing down his hands, he could feel the splinters slip into his fingers and beat down as he hit the cheap old door. It's hinges rattled, like almost... just almost, if he hit it hard enough, they would creak and collapse, allowing his sanction.

"Race?" His dad called back, a bit confused, "you're almost done, just 30 more minutes."

The air caught in his throat, and he let out a verbal sob.

"Please, dad!" He screamed banging on the closet, "I can't take it, let me out! Let me out! Let me out!"

He chanted the words, tears dripping into his mouth as he dented holes into the cursed closet.