Creative Story: Kid In Closet Essay, Research Paper
Creative Story: Kid In Closet
Wolfgang knew about his father’s past. It wasn’t talked about much, but
when it was, Wolfgang’s mouth would perspire saliva and he would swallow it with
fear. His past scared him, scared him so much one time while listening a small
puddle began to form around his left leg.
His father had never hit him or anything. His friends, they all got the
belt, slap across the butt. Wolfgang tried to explain to them the stories, but
they all thought he had it easy. The stories consisted of a kid, a non
descriptive child. Wolfgang guessed it was supposed to be his dad. The stories
were of the same idea, of a kid being bad and getting punished for it. But they
weren’t your butt slapping punishments like all the other kids got. They were
kids locked away in basements for the rats to eat, getting sold on the street to
dirty men, things to the degree only the grotesque mind could imagine such a
horror.
But when Wolfgang was really menacing or his dad was drunk he would tell
the story of the kid in the closet. The kid in the closet story scared Wolfgang
so much he wouldn’t dare get near one.
The night had fallen and the dealers came out just after dusk, so Wolfgang
moved his toys from the corner and walked up the apartment stairs. As his little
twelve year old legs climbed the steps, he had to pass the bums that lay cold on
the steps with their bottles of liquor. Once to the top of the staircase he
passed a late dealer, and headed toward his home.
As Wolfgang reached to the door it swung open nearly swiping off his arm.
“What the hell do you think your doing out this late?” It was his father, again
in a drunken state. “Get your ass in here!” he grabbed Wolfgang by the ear and
pulled in him.
“You know what use to happen to me when I was a kid?” he asked.
“Not the closet, please no.” Wolfgang pleaded with him. He didn’t want to
hear it one more time, or not ever again.
” Oh you want to hear about the kid in the closet?” he took time to say
it with ease and in such a matter that it scared Wolfgang so much he began to
beg.
“No, no, please, please don’t, anything, whip me like the other boys,
anything.” He couldn’t hold back the tears.
Wolfgang’s crying only worsened the scene and his father picked him up by
his ear. ” Your going to live it!” he said rather calming, but just loud enough
to over power Wolfgang’s crying.
Wolfgang wiggled and weaved in and out like a worm in his father’s hands,
but the grip was to strong and before he could get away he was in the closet
darkness.
The atmosphere caved in on him fast. His crying became whimpers and soon
the whimpers became silence. Wolfgang sat and listened. At first there was only
the sound of his father’s movements, but then the front door opened and closed
and he knew he was alone.
His little hands patted the rough carpet base of the closet, getting a
sense for where things were; he sat back against the wall. With nothing to do
and still quite frightened Wolfgang began to play with his hands. Each finger
was a different person and they embarked on talking to him.
“Why are we in here?” his finger asked him.
“He locked us in, cause he got mad.” Wolfgang answered directly to the
finger.
“Our we going to get out?” Asked another. Wolf shrugged his shoulders.
The fingers began to chat among themselves while Wolfgang watched and
tried to listen. But soon he fell asleep in the mist of things and he joined the
darkness of the closet.
Sometime later Wolfgang began to awake. As he opened his eyes, he could
feel the lashes on his eye lids brush up to his brow, but he could not see
anything. He closed them and tried again. There was an absence of color.
Blackness lye in the closet and Wolfgang bewildered, tried to figure if he was
awake or a sleep, dreaming. He brought his once chattering fingers to his face.
“Am I awake?” Wolfgang asked them all directly. Unconfident about receiving
an answer. There was a noise from the darkness that still entrapped him.
Wolfgang knew it was threatening and didn’t answer. He just sat lost in the
closet night.
Still thinking about the noise that now seemed to echo in his ears,
Wolfgang moved back from the wall of the closet and knocked into a box that he
hadn’t felt when he first examined the tight room. He reached his little hands
out and felt the edges and rubbed the sides with his index finger. It was an
elegant box, with patterns of velvet flowers and design. An aroma drifted from
the box, perfume his mother wore. Wolfgang remembered it from when he was just a
child. Then there was another threatening grumble, but this time from inside the
box.
“Mom? Mommy, is that you?” he asked, unfrightend about the second noise.
Wolfgang sat there in a moment of silence waiting. Without warning the box
opened. Light filled the closet, allowing Wolfgang to see. And though the light
was blinding, Wolfgang looked straight into it. All the way down to it’s source,
a tiny pebble.
Wolfgang reached out into the light and began slowly moving in on the
pebble but his hands refused and he could not mange to get them near.
“Why won’t you let me touch my mother?” he asked them all. They only
tighten into a fist and grumbled with his question.
“Why? Why?” he continued. Then with restraint from the other fingers one,
one finger broke free from the grip and spoke.
“Don’t Wolfgang, it’s not your mother. It’s no for you. Stay away. There’s
danger in that light.”
“The light let’s me see,” Wolfgang said, “it makes me feel free.”
“Don’t” just as the finger last breath carried the fading word Wolfgang
forced his hand open and reached into the box.
That morning Wolfgang’s father went to the closet door and stopped to think
about the night before. He had must of gotten drunk again.
“Poor boy,” he thought, “I’ll take him out to ice cream to make up for
things. Wolfgang?” he opened the closet door. “Wolfgang, wake up boy, let’s go
for ice cream.” There was no response in the dark closet. ” Wolfgang you mad at
me?” His father opened the door more, letting in the outside light. There in the
closet corner sat Wolfgang . Frozen stiff, red dripping from his childish grin,
staring into his fathers lock box he used to put his gun in.