My+Life-My+Nightmare

Sweat beads formed on my pale forehead. My breathing slowly got heavier and heavier, but with every ounce of pure adrenaline I had I kept quiet. The horrors of being found had overcome me and my mind, and every nerve in my body focused on the simple task of being immobile and silent. I heard the footsteps of heavy boots creeping up the stairs. There was a room upstairs, and on the top of the wall in the room was the slightest trace of a crack, it couldn't be seen unless every centimeter of the room was scrutinized. Silent prayers raced through my pulsing mind, my head throbbed with the thought of the worst possible situation...I tried to push the image out of my mind. A racing beat pounded in my chest, my body tensing with each beat. All my senses were acute and alert. I felt everything around me. The footsteps reached the top of the narrow staircase. I smelled the scent of old wood, the wood of the bed I lied under, the bed I lied under when I wasn't real, when I wasn't alive. I heard the faint sound of a hand brushing against the low ceiling, feeling for a crack, the crack, the crack that held my fate, my life or my death. I prayed for the crack. I put my soul into the prayer for the crack. I loved the crack, the tiny crack that couldn't be found. The hand stopped. I knew, as I had known many times before, that the hand was in the general area of the crack. That crack, funny the significance of a tear in the wall, was the outline of an opening in the ceiling, the opening that only a person in the starved condition that I was in would fit through. Then the hand moved again, millimeters away from my life, or my death. I heard the hand's voice speak, saying they spotted a slight crack in the ceiling, and found the opening. I jumped out the window, feeling the pain shock me as I died slowly, the breath leaving my lips. It was over. The nightmare had ended.