Page 1 of One of Them

Fear consumed the girl entirely. Unease crept through her, a foreign sensation she had never known before.

She remained hidden in the room, her breath shallow as she waited for something, anything, to break the eerie silence. A sign. An indication of what was happening.

The fluorescent light blurred over the unshed tears in her eyes, reminding her of the endless rainy days she had spent wishing for a ray of sunshine to free her from the house’s captivity. Now, she’d rather roam the house than stay in this small, cramped room meant for moments like this.

Her legs shook the same way they did when she sat at the dinner table, wiggling under the tablecloth. A gut feeling deep within told her something bad was about to happen, prompted by Mom’s nervous glances toward the front door during their meal.

Was she expecting someone?

The girl never understood, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t recall anyone other than the two of them crossing the threshold.

Was it a stranger bringing trouble to their door? Or a friend? Her mom could use one of those. She could, too.

They were what people called “total loners.” She’d heard about them on TV, the ones who barely left the house and minimized contact with the outside world. The description matched her family perfectly. Everything was brought to them. Occasionally, she was allowed to play in the backyard, but even then, her mom watched closely through the kitchen window.

Always close. Never too far out of reach. Those words summed up her childhood in this suburban house.

At first, the girl believed she was special. Why else would they protect her this much? She wasn’t a princess, that much she knew, or she wouldn’t be allowed to get so filthy. Dirt covered her up to her ears whenever she played, building walls out of wet sand. The higher they reached, almost knee level, the prouder she felt. But when the rain came, she watched her creation wash away, crumbling back into grains.

Still, she kept rebuilding.

With each birthday, more questions arose, but no amount of begging would bring her answers. Since she couldn’t stand seeing her mom upset, time allowed her to let the curiosity go.

This way of life became the norm, their norm of no visitors, no peers to play with.

Perhaps Mom had an unpleasant experience, a past event leaving her unprepared to get back out. The world overflowed with bad people, or so they preached on the news. That bit of information convinced the girl it was for the best if they didn’t put themselves out there.

After all, Mom was her everything, a best friend, the only one she ever knew. The bubble was her comfort zone, no matter how unconventional it was.

Dinner time was by far her favorite part of the day. The dining room transformed into a brighter space with laughter and stories about pizza topping combinations they’d use during their annual bake-offs. It took a while to find a winner, but she strongly suspected her luck was turning. The next victory would be hers. Guaranteed.

Not tonight. Tonight, a strange vibe lingered. Mom was distant, barely eating.

The girl observed her single parent from the opposite seat at the table. She even attempted to ask questions to ease the tension, but nothing helped.

Was she the reason for her mother’s worry?

Finished with her soup, the dirty bowl in hand, the girl made her way to the kitchen. Time was nearing eight o’clock, meaning the psychologist’s show she obsessed over was about to air.

Before she loaded the dishwasher, a knock on the door echoed through the otherwise silent house. Strange, she thought. Deliveries never came this late.

Was this the cause of her unsettlement?

Remembering the few times her mom struggled with delivery drivers and the unease those interactions brought, she thought little of the irregularity.

She settled on the couch, letting the adult handle the officialities. The show host greeted today’s guests, but their names were drowned out by the intense knocking. A fist pounded against the reinforced door, the aggressive pattern demanding attention.

Mom made no move, never rising from the dining table, but calmly turned her blonde head, looked her daughter in the eye, and whispered, “Taya, it’s time to play.”

The child understood the code and quickly stood up. She ran upstairs, her TV show completely forgotten. The carpet softened her fall as she lowered herself and patted the wall for the familiar opening her mom hadshown her at an early age. Behind it, a space known only as the panic room awaited her, its purpose shrouded in secrecy. It resembled something out of an action movie, except smaller and with fewer tech gadgets.

To this day, no situation had forced them to use the safety it offered. It was only for training or playtime when she was younger. She never fully understood the true meaning behind the name, or why a suburban house would have one. There had been no real danger to hide from back then. Now, though, the word “panic” seemed fitting.

The room’s sensor detected motion, and the emergency lights flickered on, guiding her forward. With her head tucked in, she hugged her bruised knees close, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her breath came in heavy puffs, but she focused all her energy on calming her racing heart. For many minutes, she sat there, counting heartbeats.

It wasn’t long before the front door unlocked. The sound echoed through the house every time the entry opened. Mom insisted on not oiling the hinges, so though it wasn’t heard often, the squeaking noise was a familiar sound in their household.

With her head pressed against the wall, she tried to listen, hoping to understand what was happening. Beyond the buzzing sound above her, all she heard was a jumble of voices. When her mother’s voice registered through the noise, the girl let out a heavy breath, the familiarity of the sound offering a small comfort. Still, she couldn’t calm down, no matter how hard she tried.

---