Hidden Mysteries

Teresa

I shove open the front door. It's unlocked, just like we left it when we were shot with darts. It's eerie how nothing has changed. A stack of dirty dishes in the counter. Toys strewn on the living room floor. Nothing is out of place. The only sign that there has been absolutely no life in the house is the thick layer of dust covering the floor. A sudden flood of memories come back to me, all at once.

My older brother and I building towers out of blocks.

Laughing as my father tickled be so hard I could barely breathe

Me annoying my brother, poking him in the arm repeatedly until he would scream at me to stop and then poked me back, five year old me flinching away and giggling, slapping at his hands. And then the flare.

Screaming. Watching my brother being shot and crumpling to the ground. Getting hit with one myself, expecting to die, but it never came. Watching my family go slowly insane. My village running. My village tossing me out.

"C'mon. I'll show you the closet where the trap door is," I say. Anything to stop the memories.

Our hose has only one closet. It's under the stairs, in the basement. My father said he hated closets, so we used cupboards to store everything instead. But he couldn't be bothered to fill in the one in the basement. If he had, perhaps none of this would've happened.

I climb down the stairs to the basement as quickly as I can. I never went in the basement as a child until just before the solar flares hit. Apparently, I would say that there were "Funny Noises" coming from the closet. And now I know what they must've been.

Like the upstairs, nothing is out of place. It's the same as we left it, but covered in a thick layer of dust. I don't want to look at anything. I don't want to be here. Anything could trigger memories. I will do anything to avoid them. My past is not something I want to relive.

I take a deep breath, leaning heavily on my left crutch as I come to a stop in a spot across the basement. Right in front of the closet.

Minho leans forward and grabs the handle. The door swings open faster than I expect, and nearly hits me in the head.

Thomas steps into the closet. "Flashlight?" He asks. Harriet hands him one. Inside the closet is a perfect square cut into the floor. A tiny corner sticks out, as if bent from being pulled back so many times.

"My father used to disappear into the basement for hours," I say suddenly. I don't remember thinking it, but I know it's true. He must've worked with whoever created the flare.

No one acknowledges the fact that I even spoke, so I don't say anything else. Instead we all crowd around the trap door as Thomas pulls it open. Below us is the glow of dim yellow lights, and no sound but a steady hum of electricity.