They're Coming for Me

They’re coming for me
By M. Willow


They’re coming for me. I can hear the click of shoes as they near my door. They’re coming for me. I look on the table and see what they left me—a pen, a small white sheet of paper, and a sandwich. I didn’t want the sandwich—what’s the point where I’m going. I look at the paper and pen for a second, almost like I’m willing it to fly across the room and land on this bed next to me. But, if I had that kind of power, I’d get out of here. I’d get out and surprise them all. But I’m powerless, and they’re coming for me.

I look out the window to my prison. Prison, a strange word, that. But that’s what it is. It’s a prison, one of my making, for had I listened to the warnings of my family, I wouldn’t be here now—waiting.

I think back over the past ten years. It was obvious that I needed help and my brother provided it in his cool logical fashion. I was stubborn, as usual. I wouldn’t listen to him even though I knew he was right. Click, they’re coming. Click, click, the footsteps are louder. They’re almost here now—but then the sound stops and silence once again envelopes me. I’m grateful—a reprieve of sorts.

I look at the paper and pen. I should do something with it. Something before they come. Something for my family to remember me by. I get up from my meager bed and head for the equipment. I pick up the pen and the paper. I look at the sandwich and return to my bed.

Now, I’m writing, writing and pouring out my heart—telling my family that I’m sorry. Sorry for what I did. Sorry for not listening. I look up when I hear footsteps once again. I take the paper and roll it into a tiny ball. There is no need to write. I’ve no family left.


Fin