My Hiding Place

At a young age, most kids are afraid of their closets, but I never was. Maybe it was because I had a huge, walk-in closet that was almost a room in itself.

My closet was my sanctuary, my private place. I played Barbies in my closet. I read for hours in my closet. I’d blast my Walkman, singing along as loud as I wanted, and no one could hear me, because I was in my closet.

My closet was my sanctuary, my hiding place. When I got the news that my father’s brother had committed suicide, blowing his head off with a shotgun, I ran to my closet, flipped the light off, closed the door, and cried.

When my parents would fight over my father’s latest DUI, the closet would muffle their shouts.

When my mother and I reached that stage where we never got along, I could lock myself in the closet and curse her as much as I wanted.

I was about fourteen when my parents sold the house and we moved. My new bedroom didn’t have a walk-in closet and I lost my hiding place. But by that time, I knew I couldn’t hide from my problems or avoid the people who bothered me. I was at the age where I had to confront things head-on, learn to negotiate, to compromise.

I haven’t thought about that closet in years. As an adult, I still don’t have a walk-in closet. With a husband and four kids, the only hiding place I have now is the bathroom. Funny, whenever I’m stressed, or have a bad fight with my husband, I lock myself in the bathroom. Even though I’m now an adult, that childhood habit of locking myself away is still with me.

"Daily Flash Fiction Challenge"   [13+] by Arakun the Twisted Raccoon