With Faith,

There was only one Rule: Don’t open the door.

This rule was imposed upon me by my elder brothers as fights between members, though happened often, were escalating.

This time it felt different.

“You stay here and cover your ears. Whatever you do, do not open the door.” My sister said sternly. “It will be okay! One of us will come back to get you.” She closed the door.

I’ve been here for 4686 days. That’s the number of marks I etched into the walls. The first little while was easy. It was the longest stretch of time I had experienced peace. No fighting. No arguing. No yelling. No drywall crumbling to bits beneath fists. As time went on, I shifted from believing to hoping, for anyone to show up. After awhile more, the hope faded to a minuscule prayer.

I don’t think anyone is coming.

Things are changing. A light appeared under the door for a split second. That was 112 days ago.

I hear something. It’s faint but it’s there. The noise grows to a muffled shout. Someone is here.

I sit up, crisscross-applesauce style. Knees bouncing in excitement. The person approaching is tall and wide. It comes closer. There is more than one shadow outside the door now. The handle jiggles and it opens.

The anticipation is making this moment feel like time is frozen.

Appearing before me are two of four. They are beaten and bloodied. Shirts shredded, but with the look of relief.

“You can come out now. It’s over.”