Page 67 of Make Me Scream

The temperature inside this box is rising. Sweat beads on my forehead, stinging my eyes. I wipe it off with my hand, wishing I had literally any kind of cloth.

Was there air conditioning on before, or have hours of my body heat finally turned this damn box into an oven? Am I squirming too much? Is that it? I can’t help myself.

“Lane, where the fuck are you?”

I really am the biggest idiot in the world. It doesn’t matter how much I trust Lane, this was just a stupid thing to do. A student can respect their teacher and still question the lesson if it sounds as fucking crazy as getting locked up for hours in what may as well be a coffin!

The last time I was this scared, I had four days of high school left to finish before I could claim my diploma and get the fuck out of Ohio. My bags were packed, my bus ticket was paid for. What cash I could scrounge up I hid in a sock. If Mom or Dad found out, though… All I could do was stay in my room with the door locked so they wouldn’t come inside. I counted down the minutes, too afraid to sleep, terrified of what I could walk into coming home from school.

Honestly, as fucked up as it is to be stuck here, it’s better than being back there. I’m in this situation now because of someone I trust, not people I feared.

But what if something’s really wrong?

It’s not just that he couldn’t help me; I can’t help him.

“Lane! Please!”

I bang against the wall until my knuckles ache, then I push as hard as I can on the lid.

“Please, Lane! I need you! Please, let me out!”

I hear a click.

Maybe.

Was it my imagination? Am I hallucinating?

I’m so damn thirsty. What if I’ve been down here for a day? It feels like a week.

No, that’s definitely a click!

“I’m in here! Please, let me out!”

“Cover your eyes, Gwen,” Lane says. His voice comes through muffled, but heavy — he’s shouting. Calm but loud.

I do as he says, squeezing my eyelids tight and holding a hand over them.

“Okay!”

The lid lifts off, letting in a draft of cool air. I break into a shiver immediately. Lane grips my wrists and pulls me to my feet.

“You’re fine,” he says, stroking my hair. “Everything’s fine.”

“I was so worried,” I gasp, losing my composure.

Trembling against his body, I let it all out. Tears drip down my cheeks. For a moment I can barely breathe.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Lane says.

“I don’t know,” I wail. “Like, everything. Relief, fear… gratitude… grief… rage. All of it.”

“Try opening your eyes.”

I do; it hurts a little, but I can start opening them more and more.

“RememberDeath of a Salesman, Gwen?” he asks. “The audience went on a bit of a journey: fear and grief when they realized the falling body wasn’t part of the show and they thought someone had died. Then relief and gratitude when they discovered it was just a mannequin and everyone was fine, followed by rage that they’d been tricked, and in such a crude way.”

My tears stop. I slip out of his grasp.

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