She felt trapped. Caged in, cornered. It wasn’t the T.V, blaring canned laughter at her, the pop music at full blast in the next room, drowning her in the digitally altered voices of the trendy young stars, or the glaring light of the phone next to her, it’s owner scrolling through an endless supply of photos. It was the combination, everything, with its sound and its screen and its light, pulsing, pulsing, pressing against her, blinding her, suffocating her. She wanted to scream, to fling her arms outward and then push everything away, then curl up into a ball to protect herself from these invisible demons.
But she did none of these things. Instead, she escaped, as if from a sinking ship; to the safety of her closet. It was her haven, her asylum. The flashlight that was her sum shone with a gentle, natural glow, its light glinting of the wood walls.
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