When the Doors Lock

Date: 10/20/2025

I have travelled back in time. I can only be around seventeen. Eighteen tops. My hair is cropped short — bleached blonde, like innocence that’s already been scorched. I’ve been invited to this pool party. Bodies everywhere, slick with sun and noise. Drinks spill, laughter collides, and the air hums with bass and sweat. It’s all too much — too bright, too loud. I scan the scene for familiar faces, but everyone blurs together — glossy, unanchored, strangers wearing masks of joy. I am lost in a sea of people who seem to belong to each other. Tinny 90s music blares from speakers, a club classic that pretends it’s timeless. People are dancing, flinging themselves into the pool, baptizing themselves in chaos. “Water bomb!” someone shouts, and a tidal wave erupts, drenching everyone nearby. The crowd roars. Everyone seems drunk on it — the heat, the freedom, the touch. Everyone but me. I find a quiet corner and collapse onto a sun-lounger. I close my eyes. The sounds blur into white noise. The sun presses down, heavy and forgiving. For a moment, I disappear. Then — arms. They wrap around me, sudden and certain. My eyes snap open. A man — tattooed, sunburnt, eyes too soft for the hardness of his grip. He looks familiar, though maybe that's just how danger disguises itself — in faces we almost trust. “I can’t believe I found you!” he says, voice bright with false memory. “I thought I’d never see you again.” I laugh, awkwardly. It sounds wrong in my own mouth. We’ve only just met, I think. But I don’t say it. The air thickens. The sun burns hotter. His hand lingers. His breath finds my neck. My skin feels like it’s being peeled away — like Velcro tearing over and over, a small violence disguised as affection. Every touch a question I never got to answer. “Wanna take this to my car?” he asks, too confident, too sure of yes. My body freezes. My voice stays buried. Please go away. Then — salvation. My girls. Standing by the BBQ, wrapped in smoke. The flames behind them flicker like halos. Their laughter cuts through the haze — bright, alive, untouchable. “Got to go,” I manage, peeling myself off him. His face drops. The bravado drains out. He looks small — fragile, almost sorry. And that’s what undoes me. Why do I pity the hand that trespasses? Why does his sadness feel like something I owe? I should run. But instead, I follow. He takes my hand — the same hand that gripped too tightly moments ago — and leads me through the crowd. The music fades. The laughter grows fainter. The air changes. We step into the carpark. The sunlight doesn’t reach here. It’s quieter. The silence has teeth. He gestures to his car. A small, faded metro. Harmless, ordinary — the kind of car that makes you believe you’re safe. He opens the door. I climb in. For a moment, there’s only stillness. Then — a sound. Scratching. Soft at first. Then sharper. The sound of something trapped, trying to claw its way out. I turn. Connie is in the back seat, sprawled across it. Her fingers dig into the fabric, tearing tiny graves into the upholstery. Her eyes are vacant. She’s not really here. She keeps scratching, burrowing deeper, as if searching for a way back to herself. My blood runs cold. And then — another sound. Metallic. Irreversible. The doors lock. A single, final click. And in that silence, I realise: sometimes no isn’t a word forgotten — it’s a sound swallowed whole.