36 Hours

Claustrophobia

"The fear of enclosed spaces."

Darkness.

All around me.

Everywhere I turned it was dark. My throat hurt from screaming and crying for help. My fists bruised, and my fingers bloody from banging and clawing at the tiny box.

He said he could help me get over my fears, but I realize now. I realize that it was all a joke, a game. I've been in here for 18 hours now.

18 hours of pure torture. Panic attack after panic attack. Every three hours or so, he peaks into the window, which at first was nice and clean; now covered in blood and scratch marks.

I can hear his chilling laugh as I scream for help; begging him to just let me out. He'd leave me in the box while he had patients. Discussing ways to cure their phobia. I wanted so  badly to let them know what they were going to be faced with.

I screamed my loudest when he had patients. Sure, they heard me. Even asked questions.

He would say, "Oh, that's just a psych patient across the hall."

My body was growing weak and thin. I've lost an enormous amount of blood. I cannot fight anymore. Just as I was about to give up, he opened the box. They bright lights of his office blinded me; I was stunned.

He was terrifying looking man. Stands about 6'3 and very thin. His eyes were almost as black as his soul. He always bared a mean, scary look.

His lips curled into a snarl as he grabbed me by my hair, "You're supposed to be dead."

I didn't answer and he yanked me out of the box. I shrieked, trying to pull away. But, I was too weak.

"Time for phase two." He threw me over his shoulder and walked out of his office. The hallways were pitch black and I felt him tremble beneath me.

"You're afraid of the dark." I whispered, barely audible.

He ignored what I said and kept walking. We got to the empty parking garage and he popped the trunk and tossed me in.

I had gotten used to the darkness, somewhat. But the box had  window and didn't move. The trunk was pure black and constantly moving.

Puke and blood covered his trunk. When we finally stopped and he opened the trunk, he cackled with laughter. I was curious as to why he was laughing.

Then it clicked; my appearance. My blonde hair, now strawberry blonde from the red tint of my blood. I was covered in scratches and bruises. Not to mention that everything I was wearing had throw up on it. I was a mess.

He didn't want to carry me, so he drug me out the trunk by my hair. Causing my head to slam against the hard gravel road. The whole world was spinning. He didn't seem to care, as he kept dragging me; creating more scratches and more bruises. I tried screaming for help, but my voice was too hoarse; it came out as a whisper.

We finally reached our destination. A much smaller box than the one in his office was sitting in a hole in the ground. He's going to bury me alive! I fought as hard as  could to get away, but he grabbed me and threw me in the box. I started to panic; this is not how I wanted to die.

"Here lies the girl who died from small spaces."

He shot me a wicked smile and slammed the lid down. I heard dirt fall on the box, now should I say coffin. My death bed.

I screamed as loud as I could. But it did nothing.

36 hours.

That's all it took.

36 hours and I started  fading into the darkness.

It only took 36 hours for my phobia to completely consume me and kill me.

They say fear kills, it does.