When I was a kid , my family and I used to live in a real big house. There was only 6 of us with 10 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms and 2 kitchens. One of the rooms my mom used as a “Punishment room”. It had no windows or furniture. There was a door in the room but my mom said it was just for storage and I have no business opening up that door. One day I got in trouble at school for cursing out my teacher so my mom made me spend a whole Saturday in the punishment room. It gets cold and boring in there. I got curious and decided to see what my mom kept in the storage closet, but the door was locked. I had an idea where she kept the key so when she left to the supermarket, i went to go get it. I knew she kept an oddly shaped key under the sink in one of the bathrooms. The key opened up the door and what i seen changed my life forever ......

It is cold and it is dark In the room I’m in With not a sign of escape

It has no windows or doors No lights I can see So I stay here for I know

It doesn’t want me to leave But it’s not that bad It will keep me company

It treats me the best it can Tells me what I am It teaches me all I know

It freezes me to the bone Stops me from moving Burns me with its frozen grasp

It gets smaller and smaller It holds me down tight I have no sign of escape

But escape is not needed Out there I don’t know So I stay here in my room

The room was dingy, dull, dilapidated. The small girl’s hazel eyes had just enough time to widen as she realized what was happening. Then the cellar door closed and she was trapped in the small dark room. “Daddy?” She called. Screaming could be heard from outside. The terrible sound of scraping metal and breaking glass. The girl began to beat against the door, frantically attempting to get out. I sat in the corner and watched, the only viewer of this grim spectacle. The awful sounds outside mingled with the girl’s own crying in a depressing melody. It was only when the noise from outside subsided and the girl tearfully sunk to her knees that I remembered that she was afraid of the dark. I wanted to stand up and put my arms around her, to comfort her, but it felt as though I was glued to my spot. I tried to call out to her, to tell her that it would be okay, but my mouth seemed to be sewn shut. I attempted to pray for her, but it felt as though someone had beaten me about the head with a club. I watched the sad scene as a helpless observer as the girl wiped her eyes on her smock, standing up determined. Her eyes must have adjusted because now she seemed to be looking for something. Eventually, she found it, a long crowbar that I knew she had seen her mother use when their cabin door had been jammed. She took the crowbar and mustering all her strength she wedged it into the door, prying the cellar door open. Suddenly, it was as though I was dragged from my perch, as though all of the sound was torn from my throat, as though each prayer was pulled from my head. I sat bolt up in bed screaming and praying that she wouldn’t look outside. That she wouldn’t smell the smoke. That she wouldn’t feel the sticky blood on her bare feet or taste the bitterness of vomit in her mouth. I quickly collected myself, realizing that it was simply a dream. I looked around my humble room, my eyes roaming over my guard uniform, my journal, and finally settling on the candle at my bedside. I was still afraid of the dark.