Amy buys a ticket

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story

Submitted: November 13, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 13, 2007



Amy Whittaker is convinced that she can worm her way through the gap underneath her bedroom door.  From where she is sitting, cross-legged on the floor, Amy can see the gap swell and contract in a steady rhythm as if the house is alive and her bedroom door is a vent in a windpipe, and her room a lung.  Her mind is racing very fast but very little is sensible.

Amy is trying to remember why she is in her room, locked in.  However, thinking about it makes her feel uncomfortable and produces quick rushes of blood to her head that makes her feel sticky and feverish; the unified effect of this:  nauseas dizziness.  It is almost like there is a haze inside her head, and the haze only clears to show Amy her face, laughing wildly, all she sees in her head is a maniac version of herself.  She moves her hand awkwardly upwards bending only her elbow, slowly covering her mouth.

Her fingers feel like spaghetti as it melts on her cheek, she is sweating and feeling very sick.  She hugs her knees with her arms and draw in her knees with her elbow.  She falls over to her right, and lies there on the cold wooden floor in foetal position; crying.

Her paranoia is severe, the air is too thick to breathe, and she can perceive herself radiating heat into her cold surroundings.  She puts her hands next to her face, turning onto her stomach; she pushes her torso up and pulls herself towards the door with her hands, still crying.  She reaches the door looking at it as it expands and contracts.

Amy’s palms are flat on the floor; fingers extended, just inches from the door.  Pushing slowly, she can feel the crevices in the wood, these miniscule grains of wood, made even smaller by the varnish, feel like mountains and valleys.  Her fingertips hit the door.  Amy waits for it to expand…

Slowly but surely her fingers go ever deeper, by her first knuckle she becomes aware of a hot and moist sensation.  She feels silly admitting it, but it reminds her of masturbation.  All this time she is easing her hands ever deeper towards freedom.  She expected to feel at least a little bit of pain, but surprisingly there is none.  When she gets to the place where her thumb joins her hand, she gets a sudden jolt that shakes her whole body.

She pulls her hands back and cross it over her chest.  She paddles backwards on her ass using her legs.  Hitting her bed with her back, she lies against it and start to cry, clutching her hands against her chest.


Gloria Whittaker arrives home at four in the morning.  Sooner than expected but she could not stay another second.  She just had a fight with her estranged alcoholic ex-husband.  The one thought that kept her calm and gave her meeting with this animal some sort of purpose was having Amy waiting for her at home.  She has no idea what she would do if she did not win the custody battle.  Her daughter is the only thing that makes her hold on.  Gloria closes the front door behind her.

She senses a low frequency that turns her mothers’ gut.  Gloria is sure that whimpers are coming from Amy’s room.  She puts her handbag on the sideboard in the entranceway.  She climbs the stairs towards the upstairs living area, adorning the walls are photo portraits of Gloria and Amy, Gloria meticulously removed every trace of Amy’s biological farther from the house.

She is horrified, on the verge of vomiting from shock; under Amy’s door is a pool of blood.  She screams her daughter’s name at the top of her voice.  She tries the door: locked.  The key is still in the hole, and she realises that her daughter is in her room, locked in.  Thoughts of house breaking enter her mind, and she conjures visions of Amy lying on her bed, bloody and desecrated.  Gloria is wild with paranoia. She opens the door, and there is Amy, crying, sobbing ‘sorry…’ through her seemingly painful breaths.

“There is nothing to be sorry about, baby, what happened?”  Gloria says in a calm contrast to her previous state.

Amy slowly raises her hands in front of her face.  Gloria only notices all the blood on Amy’s t-shirt now.  Amy’s fingers are bloody, the bone is showing all the way past her last knuckle and Gloria can see the inside of Amy’s hand.

Gloria pukes and swallows some as she grasps for air.


On the way to the hospital, Amy tells her about the whole ordeal.  Amy, having regained her memory from her paranoia-induced amnesia remembers most of it clearly.  She and a group of friends were experimenting with LSD.  She did not expect her mother to return until the next day, so they bought liquor and drugs.  They wanted ecstasy but the dealer only had LSD.

None of them took it before and they were all largely ignorant of the substance.  Having only heard greatly exaggerated urban myths of people who believed they could fly and unlucky folk who stare at the sun until they are blind.  They each put one strip on their tongues and started to drink.  They did not know how strong it was, so they bought three doses each as the dealer told them that even though it is strong, you need more on your first time.

After getting a little drunk, they became brave and put the remaining two stamps on their tongues.  After a while, Amy remembers her tongue feeling course and dry.

That is when she started acting out, she felt as if she could do nothing wrong.  She begun shouting and laughing wildly.  That is when her friends locked her in her room.  They became scared of her; she was badly twisted, and they wanted her to calm down.

She has not yet worked through the effects of the divorce and she kept it all inside.  The maniac she saw in her mind was the product of her parents failed relationship.  She did not tell her mother this.  This maniac was what made her friends so scared.  Freaked out themselves, they just left her in her room and went home.

As Amy gets out of the car at the emergency room, she looks at her mom and says, “Maybe I should have tried my feet first?”

Gloria breaks down and cries.

© Copyright 2018 Francois Roux. All rights reserved.

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