Short Story: In My Room

I stare at these four walls. I can tell you the size, shape and exact location crack and pinhole in here. The reason I can do that is because I’ve seen them about a million times.

I could always get more pictures to put up in here. But that would mean leaving. And I can’t do that. I just can’t. It’s not happening.

I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. It makes a change from the wall, but not by much. I light a cigarette and realise that I’m almost out. I’m almost out of food as well.

I could phone someone and ask me to get stuff for me. Except they won’t. They’ve got sick of it and are refusing to even take my calls. They all say the same thing, why don’t you just go yourself?

Because they’re out there. I’m not sure why they’re after me, or what they want. But they’re out there. Watching me. Recording my every move. They’ve tapped into the CCTV network. Even then, their agents follow me around, noting down my every move in their notepads. Taking photos.

That’s why my friends will no longer help me. They want to starve me out. They know I’m onto them. They got onto the local takeout place as well. I know they can’t observe me when I’m in the house. But just to be sure, I stay in my room.

They know I’m different. They know I’m not like anyone else. And they want me. For what means, I honestly don’t know. But I’m guessing they’re not good.

Getting hungry. I’ll go and see what food I do have. But I know it’s not much. I’m still not going out. They can reclaim my decomposing body from here if need be.

But they’ll never find out exactly what I can do. They’ll never get me alive.

I stare at these four walls.

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