"Trapped Inside" by Thomas Elson

Trapped Inside

He has lived in the middle of combat all his life. A heavily-armed truce with fortified borders and occasional explosions — some so close it felt as if they came from inside.
His darkened bedroom smells like warfare’s residue. He pulls the covers over his head — hopes for protection. He snuggles toward his pillow, then cuddles it.
Each morning he awakens with the taste of smoke on his tongue. The lingering odors cause him to cough phlegm. Weekends are the worst — he checks for land mines strewn near a DMZ neither side may cross without permission.
He rises not knowing the direction to take nor the rules for the day, nor would he ever since it all changes daily. Did they decide to redraw the frontline? Has the site of the next battle been chosen? Will the shelling begin this morning or after dark? Will it continue through the night until he wakes up?
It’s quiet. But he’s experienced this before. To him, silence in the morning is deceptive. Still in his underwear, his hair askew, he looks down the hallway, then tiptoes into the kitchen, hoping the water has not been cut off so he can erase the dryness in his mouth. When the smoke settles, he smells his parents’ stale cigarettes. His head is full, and his sinuses hurt from the air and broken sleep.
He recoils from a sound as he pours his cereal. The box hits the floor. Clean it up before they find out. He bends and stretches to pick up his spill, then he scans the room and, out of habit, places his ears on high alert. A percussive sound. Not again. Claps his hands over his ears. Squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks he hears his name shouted. Impossible to make out among the other noise. Too early anyway. He does not look outside. Without realizing it, he leaves some cereal on the floor under the ledge of the counter.
After pouring his milk, he walks past the dirty dishes to the kitchen table and hears rumbling. Within moments, a disembodied voice shouts, “What the hell is that on the floor?” He’s heard this before and knows it’s a threat. Soon to be followed by a red face, echoed by clinched fists and recriminations. “You always do this. Damn it. Things are bad enough around here. Now this.” He does not look up. The voice disappears. He raises his eyes. No one is there with him. He hears a door scrape shut, re-open. Then silence.
He hears sounds like gunfire. Runs toward his parents’ bedroom, and peeks inside. They’re still in the same clothes as yesterday. The room reeks of ashtrays with stale cigarettes, fragments from stale words, and the stale gaze of trapped eyes.
As he feared, the hand-to-hand combat never stopped. They sit on the edge of the bed, their bodies tight, their faces taut. The little boy’s nerves close off — he feels a cramp as his muscles contract — and his parents spit out words that pierce him like bullets.

Thomas Elson

Thomas Elson’s stories appear in numerous venues, including Mad Swirl, Blink-Ink, Ellipsis, Scapegoat, Bull, New Writing Scotland, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Short Édition, Litro, Journal of Expressive Writing, Dead Mule School, Selkie, New Ulster, Lampeter, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas.

Headshot: Michelle Bahr

Photo Credit: Staff