[ WP ] Today , you went into the room your parents told you to never go in .

There ’ s so little time. Quickly, now, before the whine of the garage door and the creek of the steps announces their arrival home. 
 
 I ’ d saved my chance for weeks, listening to muffled conversations about their upcoming trip. An overnight they ’ d said—perfect. Just the chance I ’ d been waiting for. 
 
 The car left late this afternoon, but even after it fades, I wait, too used to their unexpected return. They often do that, and I find myself wondering if it ’ s only for me, if they return simply to startle me, to show me that peace will never last and can never be counted on. After an hour of nothing but silence, I spring from my crouched position under the stairs. I clamor for the door to the stairs that will lead me out of the wretched basement. It ’ s locked, but years of solitude and desperation had taught me to pick this lock. I know it better than myself. 
 
 The door swings open with a terrifying creak, and I freeze again, sure they heard me even miles away. The chains around my ankles have long since become too large for me, and I wear them more as jewelry than anything else. I slip my binds and race for the stairs. I take them two, three at a time, and when I reach the main floor I continue climbing, climbing, climbing. There is no escape out the front door, nothing out there but endless farmland and hungry dogs who can easily outrun me. But that isn ’ t what I want anyway; freedom is only how you choose to see your circumstance, after all. 
 
 I reach the door I ’ m never supposed to touch, and I hesitate, because I know this door won ’ t be locked. They would never think to look at me here, three floors up and standing. Slowly, I place my hand on the knob and twist. It creaks when it moves; like my basement door, it isn ’ t opened much. 
 
 The walls are blue, and that ’ s the first thing I notice. A bed, small enough to house me and only me, lurks in the corner by a dresser and a vanity. Everything is clocked in a thick layer of dust, even the discarded stuffed animals leering from the bedspread. 
 
 This is the room my parents told me never to enter. My room. One of my own that isn ’ t crammed into a basement or smell of urine. 
 
 I take a seat on the carpet, fold up my spindly legs under me, and even though I know it won ’ t last, I don ’ t cry. Because at least right now, I am free.
