Seven O'Clock

Finally! Fucking finally!

He'd been waiting for the day. The day he could finally leave. And now that the time had come, he planned to do just that. For the past four years, it had been the only thing on his mind. He'd been preparing. He'd been imagining...

Imagining the feeling of walking out and never looking back.

Imagining the first lungful of air that didn’t have the rotten aftertaste of those walls.

Imagining the taste of food that was served to him out of more than mere obligation.

Imagining being asked instead of told.

Imagining...

He'd tried once. He'd failed. Miserably.

Honestly, in a few years... Well, probably more like ten years, it might even be funny to look back on how ridiculously he'd failed.

Or maybe not.

It had almost cost him everything. Though there wasn't much to begin with.

That was when he'd made the decision to follow the rules.

Their rules.

And follow them exactly. No exceptions, no deviations.

This time, once I’m gone – I’m gone for good.

Hindering his thoughts from getting ahead of things turned harder with each passing minute. But he couldn't afford to lose focus now. Not when he was this close.

Forcing his mind to slow down, he placed the pajamas, toothbrush, and a pair of crooked, one-armed glasses into a brown backpack. It was small, but still clearly too large for the handful of things he owned in this world.

Tapping a dog-eared journal on an otherwise empty table, he tried to level the loose pages sticking out between the covers. Without much success, he threw it into the bag as well. After a momentary pause, he hooked a green pen he'd found under a bench at a bus stop to the front cover, and tucked the notebook between the folded-up pajamas.

The only pieces of clothing he owned – jeans and a t-shirt – he was already wearing. He slipped his feet into the charity shop sneakers that had had God knows how many feet in them before his, buckled the backpack, and sat on the edge of his bed – the only spot that didn't make the springs squeak when touched.

None of his moves had made more sound than a falling leaf – a skill he'd learned quickly after the failed escape attempt. A rule he had set for himself.

He was waiting for the sunbeam that peeked in from the ripped edge of the window cover to hit the third deep scratch on the wooden table.

On that day, it meant seven o’clock. Now quiet and motionless, he waited patiently for the last time he would walk out that door, legally free to go.

Slowly but surely, the sunbeam crawled on and the scratch got covered in golden sunlight. He didn’t stand up just yet.

Without even realizing it, he'd stopped breathing, waiting for the familiar beeping from the next room over.

And there it was.

Instinctively, he turned to stare at the opposing wall behind him, still holding his breath, until he heard the muffled sound of a radio. He finally exhaled – everything was exactly as expected.

He stood up, threw the almost empty bag over his shoulder, and walked to the door, pulse thundering in his ears like a crowd cheering him on.

Thoughts racing – only because he finally allowed them to – he took the last– or is it the first? – step.

He paused at a mark in the doorframe, his hand instinctively rising to his forehead.

The unknown of the outside pulled him. It tugged him. Though he didn't know the feeling, he decided it felt like going home.

The door handle announced itself with a loud, familiar creak.