The Boy in My Closet | k.th

10. Sunday Night

[WARNING! Possibly triggering content and mature topics ahead. Violence and self-harm are present in this chapter.]

The Human

Sitting in your living room that Sunday night in the middle of May, you lean up again your couch as you work on some homework. A red alert tells you that your phone is almost dead.

You leave your phone and computer as they are on the coffee table, and go upstairs to grab a charger.

And, at first, the sound was small.

Scratches so quiet they were almost inaudible; little sounds of rattling.

You thought it was maybe your neighbor.

Maybe the air conditioning.

That was until you heard a door open and close.

That undeniable creak and croak as your dated door swung open and shut. The hushed shutter was something you knew to be your front door, though it sounded as though whoever opened it wanted no one to know they entered.

You stand up from your spot on the floor, making sure to be noiseless.

Because what were the chances that this wasn't your best friend.

The overlooking loft of your bedroom has a view to the front door.

You walk ever so slowly to the edge.

A man stands in your living room.

He wears dark clothes and a hat.

And he's not your friend; you've never seen this man in your life.

Something is in his covered hand, and you see his head turn back and forth as if searching the space below.

Your eyes water with fear as you realize that your computer and phone are still sitting below on the table. No one can help you.

Immediately you look around the small space of your bedroom, wondering how long it will be until he makes his way up the stairs.

First, you look to your window.

There's no way you could open it and get out without making noise, and let alone survive the landing. You're on the top floor.

You look helplessly to the bathroom.  It sits in a spot in your room where he'd have a clear view of you entering it.

Then you look at the closet.

You know it's your only option.

With quick, soundless feet, you move into it.

You shut it slowly and quietly, locking it.

Fear torments your mind as you gasp for air while listening to any sound that warns you of the intruder's presence. You need someone; you need help.

At that point, you don't know what else to do. Your hands go to your pockets first, then the shelves of your closet.

The pin you usually have when you enter the space is gone, and your search helplessly for anything sharp. Your first instinct is getting something to defend yourself, but then you think of him. 

By now you're crying fully, though you bite your lip as to not make noise.

And that's when you get it.

With two short, fast breaths, you hold your arm out before you.

You bite.

It takes everything in your not to scream.

There's not enough blood. The almost nonexistent puncture produces little freckles of red, and he's still not here. You hear footsteps.

"Where are you?" You want to shout.

You look down at your reddened arm, staring at the teeth marks. You hesitate to bite down one more time, wondering if your body would even let you.

Exsanguination and asphyxiation are ruled as the final cause of death.

Over the weeks that you've been visiting the boy in your closet, you've found answers to things you wondered and learned information out about the boy. Though, you were still always doubting and asking questions.

Because you could see him when you bled. Exsanguination.

But could he see you if you stopped breathing? Asphyxiation.

 You sit down against the wall and wrap your hands around your neck and squeeze.

"Please help me!" You want to shout.

Tears stream down your paling face, and you choke back a gasp that wants to take in air.

You kick, squirm in your place. Do anything and everything to keep you from taking that breath.

Until you finally fall limp.