Page 15 of The Intruder

A ball of dread fills my stomach. It’s been so long since my mother had a date, I forgot the rules.

“No,” I say. “No, Mom. Please.”

“You know the rules, Ella,” she reminds me. “We do this every time.”

Yes, but it’s been a long time since her last date. I’m thirteen years old now. I thought maybe things had changed.

“Come on.” She jerks her head in the direction of the hall closet. “Let’s go.”

“I promise I’ll be good.” My voice sounds high-pitched and whiny, like I’m a little kid again, and I clear my throat, trying to sound more adult. “I promise. You can trust me. Please, Mommy. Please.”

“I can trust you?” Mom repeats, her voice incredulous. “I literally just caught you throwing away my stuff. You think I’m going to leave you alone here for an entire evening?”

What if I refuse? When I was little, it was easy enough for her to just pick me up and throw me in the closet against my will. But I’m bigger now. I look her up and down, from her heels to her dangly earrings… She is still a lot bigger than me. But I could put up a fight.

Sometimes it feels like I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m not afraid of Anton, that’s for sure. He’s just a stupid bully. I’m not afraid of Principal Garber or getting detention. But I am afraid of my mother.

“I don’t want to go in there,” I say firmly. “I…I won’t do it.”

My mother’s lips set into a straight line.

Before I can react, she grabs me by the forearm, her long nails cutting into my skin deep enough to draw blood.

I try to wrench myself free, but it’s no use.

Maybe if I wasn’t the smallest kid in my whole class, I would be able to resist. But there isn’t anything I can do when she decides to lock me up.

She swings me by my arm into our hall closet.

I stumble, tripping on a bunch more bottles that are stacked up in here.

Oh my God, how many does my mother have?

I try to catch my balance, but then something mysterious squishes under my foot, and I nearly slip again.

That’s when the door swings shut. I feel around in the dark, scrambling for the doorknob, but it’s too late.

The lock turns, which means I’m not getting out.

“I’m sorry, Ella.” Mom’s voice sounds hollow on the other side of the door. “I won’t be gone long.”

Frustrated, I pound on the door. “Let me out! Please, Mom!”

“I’m sorry, Ella,” she says again in that same flat voice, like she’s not sorry at all.

I pound harder. “Please! I swear I won’t touch anything. I swear on my life!”

She doesn’t reply.

“Please!” I scream, my voice rasping. “Please let me out, Mommy! I’ll be good! Please!”

The only sound is the door to the house slamming shut. She’s gone.

I haven’t been locked in this closet in a long time.

There was a period when it seemed like she put me in here at least once a week, but now it’s been a good year or longer.

I forgot how claustrophobic it was in here.

The space is small enough, but it’s even worse because there’s so much stuff packed inside.

I take a step away from the door, knocking into what must be more plastic bottles. There have got to be at least a couple dozen in here. What does she think we’re going to do with all of them? Build a bottle fort? I can’t even imagine.

I grope around in the darkness, feeling for the pull string for the light. I know approximately where it is, and after about a minute of searching, my fingers make contact. Except it’s been a while since I’ve been locked in here. What if the light blew out?

I take a deep breath and pull the string.

Nothing happens.

My breaths start coming in quick gasps. It’s bad enough that I’m stuck in this closet, but it’s much worse that I’m stuck in here with no light whatsoever.

Like, I can’t see anything at all. Also, there’s a smell in here.

A really bad smell. Our house doesn’t smell great in general, but it’s way worse in this closet.

It’s like somebody died in here. And because the stupid light won’t turn on, I don’t even know what stinks so bad.

I have to just imagine what it might be.

Please, please, please turn on.

I wrap my fingers tightly around the pull string and give it another firm yank. This time, the bulb flickers and turns on. It’s dim, like it doesn’t have much life left in it, but at least I’m not blind anymore.

And oh my God, what is that smell?

I take a quick inventory of the contents of the hall closet.

Really, it’s a coat closet, and I think there are probably some coats somewhere in here.

But right now, most of the space is taken up by all those empty bottles as well as thick stacks of paper.

My mother has never thrown away an empty bottle, a piece of paper, or even a pencil worn down the nub, and I’m not even exaggerating.

Sometimes I wonder if she stashes her used toilet paper somewhere.

The smell is almost getting worse. The odor molecules seem to be multiplying, filling my lungs and almost choking me.

Can a smell choke you to death? It seems possible while I’m standing in this closet.

Mom will be sorry if she comes back and finds me lying dead in the closet. Or would she even notice?

What could it be? It doesn’t really smell like a dead body or anything like that. Not that I know what a dead body smells like, but it’s more of a garbage smell. But it’s also sort of sweet, and that’s the worst part of it. It’s sweet garbage.

I don’t have anything better to do, so I turn around as much as I can, craning my neck to search the closet.

The right side is mostly papers, with some of those empty soda bottles stacked on top.

I don’t see anything that smells bad. I’m sniffing things, and it’s really hard to tell because the stench is so strong, it’s hard to know if it’s stronger in one place or another.

But paper doesn’t usually smell like that. Paper doesn’t rot.

Finally, I check the left side of the closet. Again, there are a lot of papers. But on top of one tower of magazines I spy a grocery bag. And when I look inside, there are peaches. Lots and lots of peaches.

I remember my mom telling me about some sale at the grocery store on peaches, and she got a lot of them because they were so cheap. Practically free. When was that? More than a month ago, for sure. Two months? Three?

As soon as I bring my face closer to the bag of peaches, I know for sure that’s where the smell is coming from. These peaches are rotting. They’re almost liquid. Even worse, I can just barely make out little worms squirming in a puddle of fetid juice.

Holy crap. The whole bag is teeming with larva.

I jump away from the bag, a sick feeling in my chest. I think I’m going to throw up. I am stuck in this closet with peaches that are rotting and growing worms. If the contents of the bag spill over the sides, I swear I’ll lose it. This is not cool. I can’t do this.

Before, I hit the door with the palm of my hand, but this time, I put both fists into it. I pound as hard as I can, hoping my mother hasn’t left the house yet. “Let me out of here!” I holler. “Let! Me! Out!”

Tears spring up in my eyes. This can’t be happening. I can’t spend the next several hours here. I can barely breathe.

“Please let me out!” I scream. “Please! Please!”

I scream and pound on the door for another ten minutes. By the end, my throat is sore, and my fists are throbbing. And the whole time, I don’t hear a sound. My mother has left, and there’s nobody else to hear me.

I don’t know what to do. If my mom is gone, my only chance is to get the attention of a neighbor somehow, which seems pretty unlikely considering my shouting is muffled by the closet, lined with paper and all her other crap.

And even if it wasn’t—say the police came and found me in here—then what?

The second the police came into this house, they would take me away from my mother.

And I don’t want that. My mom isn’t the best mother in the world, but I don’t want to get taken away from her. I don’t want to live with some pervy foster dad who is always groping at me. Or somebody who beats me for real.

Instead, I sink down in the corner of the closet. She’ll be back before bedtime. In the meantime, I’ll just breathe through my mouth. A smell can’t really kill me. I’ll get out eventually.