The button of escape

En engelsk 'composition', (ved ikke lige hvad det hedder på dansk), som faktisk var min engelsk opgave. Vi fik besked på at starte historien med:
'At the end of the corridor the closed door was waiting...'
Håber i kan lide den!

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1. The button of escape

At the end of the corridor the closed door was waiting. I didn't want to go in, I didn't. Unfortunately, I had to. In my head I had no choice but to open that door and try to keep my sanity until I had resolved my guilt and could storm off. Again to forget about the part of me in there. To pretend that part never existed. Oh, I've spent many days trying that.

As I walked behind the blond nurse who had greeted me with a smile that didn't quite fit in to the surroundings, a smell of plastic and peppermint overrwhelmed me. It reminded me of a dentist. Of course, it wasn't far from that area either. I mean, a dentist is a kind of doctor, right? Just like a psychiatrist.

The grey walls seemed depressed and the silence that filled the corridors in this building, was almost unbearable. I felt closed in, with no way to escape. One could just run out and away, just as long as the little 'visitor'-sign on your chest was shown. But I am and was not 'one'. I'm 'me'.


It seemed like an eternity before we reached the door.
"She may be a bit... Tired." Blondie had turned to me, with one hand on the doorknob.
"You know what to do if anything should happen?"
"Push the button," I replied nodding. Trying to smile. Nothing came.
"Okay, here we go." She opened the door.
"Eliza, you've got a visitor." The nurse's voice had suddenly changed to sound like she was talking to a three year old kid, who had just woken up from a nap.

She didn't even look up from the pillow she was holding in her hands. She just sat there. Staring at it, like it was giving her some sort of revelation of life. Staring at it, with blank empty eyes. Her skin was pale and she looked thinner than I'd remembered.
"Hi... Mom." It was hard to say 'mom' to this person sitting before me. She was not the mom I remembered. The mom who would pick me up from basketball with homemade cookies to give out, and a mischievous glipmse in her eye. This person, so pale, so blank, was not my mom.
I don't know how she can continue to startle me like that.

My voice must have reminded her of something familiar, because she turned her head. Slowly, very slowly, without moving another single muscle.
"Trixie?" Her voice was hoarse.
"No mom, Tracy." I tried to smile again, and again it didn't work.
"So, uhm... How are you?"
"I... I need to get out of here Trixie."
"Tracy."
"I don't belong here. I'm fine, I..."
"Mom, don't start this again please." I had only been there three and a half minutes and I could already feel the tears pressing against my lits. It was just too hard. Too hard.
"No no, listen, he says it too! The bald man. He says I should run away. He says the people kn the white coats wants to poison me! Poison me, Trixie!"
"Mom..."
"Listen to your mother, Trixie!" She stood up, still with the pillow in her shaking hands. Her voice had gone up four pitches and her eyes were suddenly very present.
"Do you want them to kill your own mother?!"
She had moved closer to me. Suddenly, her hands let go of the pillow and grabbed my arms instead. I wanted to run. Run and never come back, but her grab was too tight.
"Please, let go." I tried to stay strong, but I couldn't hold my tears back any longer. My eyes ran over.
"Don't you cry!" She was hysterical now. Her voice broke in the middle of the sentence. She couldn't handle my tears.
"Stop it!" She shouted.
"Stop it!"

A burning pain hit my left cheek. She had slapped me. And hard, too. I had to get out of there. Had to.
I looked around. The door was locked and I couldn't reach the knob anyway. Then I saw the button. The red one. On the wall by my right.
I started twisting my way out of her brutal grib, with my eyes staring at the button. Maybe I was hoping, that if I thought of it hard enough, I could reach it.
I kept twisting. For such a skinny woman she sure was strong.
"Stop it! Stand still," she hised.
I had now gotten us closer to my right.
Only one centimetre, and I could reach it.
"Stop it I tell you!"
Just one...
"STOP!"
And...

I had reached.
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