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What if you could go back?


Submitted:Jul 9, 2012    Reads: 13    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


It was seconds after the door slammed shut, that I realized there was someone behind it. The ball would drop and I would be sitting beneath the moonlit sky, but buried inside of this refrigerator. I pinch myself twice and slam a fist into the door, I cannot believe I got inside it in the first place. That red glowing light was like some kind of cheese and I was the mouse that could not resist. Finally doomed. I had made a lifestyle out of following little red lights. Everything about them tells you to stop...that they are profoundly dangerous. But I never much feared the dangerous, but the predictable. I had always said that I would rather die not knowing or by accident than in my bed a hundred years from now, wondering if tonight was the night my eyes wouldn't reopen. As I sit alone in this vertical tomb, my mausoleum, I take it all back. The things I said. The things I did. The people I've hurt. Walking away laughing. I regret everything. Just seconds after the door slams shut, I regret my entire life. It feels deeper than wishing I haven't wondered into this junk yard or even sitting down inside this fridge. Somehow I want to die. I am glad to be getting what I deserve finally. I am praying to rewind the entire tape and record over it. The looks on their faces will haunt my hell I am guessing. I slam my hand into the door again and again until I feel a trickle of warm fluid down my forearm and into my sleeve. I slam it again in anger, and again. I listen as the bones creak and snap as I shatter it on the steel? What is this material anyway? It is soft, yet unforgiving and unwavering. I am trapped. Her fingernails were painted red. It's all I saw as the door slammed shut. What witch of a woman locks a child inside of a refrigerator? But I am not a boy anymore I guess. I am no more a child than a feeble old man staring out at the world he once loved. It's been days since that door shut. Maybe years, I don't know anymore. It's too dark in here to count my fist marks in the door. They used to heal and stop hurting. Now they are brittle and falling apart. They bleed no more. I have long since stopped crushing them on the door. The light of the sun crosses only my memory and I am left to my doom. To my regrets...





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