Sunset Below The Surface REWRITE

    A cold gust of air wormed its way through the slightly  ajar window in my small personal cell. My father preferred the term,  ‘room,’ but I always insisted to agree to disagree.

    I  lied on the small, worn out bed my father had planted in my room, one  of the many things that my father claimed I had chosen.

     Although, I knew deep down that I hadn’t. I never would have picked  such a revolting cover. Covered head to toe in bright orange fish, it  had shown a place that I had never seen; An ocean that I had no desire  to even glance at.

    To accompany it, a small carpet  placed on the frozen concrete floors to try and make this hell feel more  like a home with a faint coral reef pattern.

    “It  goes with the bed,” My father would always insist but neither of us  actually believed such stupid lies. The blues all entirely different,  the greens muddied in such ways they made me sick, the oranges both  stupidly bright and disappointingly dull, yet what I always hated the  fleshy corals the most.

    The years inside my little  brought me to despise those pinks the most. The pinks that matched my  father’s slightly warm cheeks, the pinks that I noticed creep in every  day as the sun fell asleep, the pinks that matched the guts of rats that  had caught themselves trapped in my father’s twisted little chamber of  torment. 

    And then the dresser. The least insulting  item in my room. A deep wood to sit secluded on the edge. It had no  special features, no adornments, no items or toys left sitting on top of  it. Just a dresser that contained the last few bits of my crumbling  sanity.

    My father’s wife chose it for her son when both of them had still conveniently not been hit by a truck. 

     Sitting alone in my little birdcage led me to many thoughts. Some of  which involved escaping, others of finding a way to dispose of my corpse  after whatever fueled my miserable body found a new home.

    But I never could actually take the initiative to do any of those things.

    I always wallowed and cried but I never got up to do anything.

    Until I heard her.

    A shout. A scream. A single call for something, anything, just to run down and save her.

     A shout that would be that yelled that I needed to go. I needed to  stop feeling sorry and start actually feeling. A shout so vivid, so  pained, yet so beautiful, that it seemed more like a song.

     And so, I began to run. I ran through bland stone corridors and  twisted staircases, following the melody of screams. I descended down  through endless wooden doors and mazes, going left and right  continuously until I finally reached it.

    The cold  metal door I longed for, the siren that called for me, and my father,  back turned, slicing apart the one thing I ever tried to reach.