He was trapped. He couldn’t leave. They were out there.
Their sounds came through the crack in the door–why did he leave it open? Their voices were indistinct unless he really listened. Mostly he heard clattering of plates and the groan of the living room floor beneath the traffic. Some shouting. Laughter.
How long would it be before he could leave? An hour? All night? He imagined them peeking inside his room, forcing him to lock it thereafter.
It was getting late. Did they know he was there? What would they think if they knew… The longer he stayed, the more unbearable the thought of facing them. Would he tell them he was napping? That he was sick? Why else would he stay in his room for so many hours?
It was them. Invading his space, expecting him to speak to them. He wished he were invisible, that he could sneak out of his room and evade them. He thought about putting on his coat and the old shoes in his closet and climbing off the balcony out his window. Anything to get away. He was hungry. He was thirsty. And on and on they chatted and laughed and shouted–socializing, visiting.
His stomach was going, now. The sky grew black, and the only light in his room came from monitors. He hesitated even to turn on a light–he would make noise walking around, and the light might give him away.
Damn them all, he thought. Damn their extraversion. Damn their lack of social anxiety. Carefree, they were–free of caring about him, trapped there, as his housemates and their friends carried on happily right in front of the kitchen, just outside his bedroom.
265’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Social anxiety,””Trapped,” and, “Too many roommates.”
Currently in this predicament. They just won’t leave.