"Let me out!"
I screamed, my small fists hammering against the locked door until my knuckles turned red and my throat was dry.
Tears blurred everything, but I kept pounding, begging, voice cracking with desperation.
"Please… let me out…"
No answer…
My legs buckled. I slid down the door, sobs turning to gasps, until exhaustion swallowed me whole. I curled up on the cold floor and fell into a deep, suffocating sleep…
I jolted awake in my bed, heart slamming against my ribs, sheets twisted and damp with sweat.
That dream again.
The same locked door. The same silence pressing in from all sides.
It had happened years ago, when I was little, but lately it returned almost every night, sharper, heavier, like it was trying to drag me back inside that room.
Back then, I wasn't just mischievous. My parents called it "hyperactive," but that word felt too small.
I was violent.
I fought anyone who looked at me wrong.
I threw punches without hesitation, stones without regret, straight at heads, full force.
By some miracle, no one ever ended up seriously injured.
But my parents paid anyway.
Endless apologies. Endless compensation.
The medical bills alone became a mountain we could barely climb.
Normal childhood trouble was one thing.
Mine was something else, something they couldn't control.
So they chose the only thing left.
Strict discipline.
When they were home, I wasn't allowed outside.
When they both had to leave, the door locked behind them with a final, heavy click.
At first I raged.
I smashed chairs, shattered lamps, tore cushions apart, anything to fight back against the walls closing in.
Dad would come home, survey the wreckage, and give that cold, mocking smile.
"Well done," he'd say, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Keep going. Smash more. It's still cheaper than groveling to someone else's parents… or paying their hospital bills."
The punishment dragged on for years.
Second grade. Third grade. All the way into junior high.
The wild boy slowly disappeared.
Day by day, trapped inside those four walls, something inside me broke quietly and completely.
I stopped fighting.
Stopped begging.
I became someone else, quiet, withdrawn, a stranger even to myself.
And the worst part?
Deep down, a small voice still wondered if I'd deserved it all along…
Trapped inside day after day, with nothing but the same four walls and the ticking of the clock, boredom became a weight that pressed down on me harder than any punishment.
Books were the only thing that kept me sane. My only door to the outside world.
At first, they were simple: bright children's stories, fairy tales, collections of stories my parents bought on purpose, probably hoping they would calm me down.
I devoured them.
Then, as I got older and the stacks on the shelves grew, the books changed.
More of them appeared. Thicker, heavier, stranger.
By fourth grade, I was lost in fantasy worlds and martial arts epics, pages filled with heroes who could shatter mountains and villains who schemed in shadows.
By fifth grade, I reached for things far beyond my years. Dense classics, philosophy, ancient texts with words I could barely pronounce.
I read whatever fell into my hands.
Anything to fill the silence.
When something confused me, some passage too deep, some idea too twisted, I would go to my parents.
Mom would glance at the page, frown, and shrug.
"I don't know either. Ask your father."
Dad's answer was always the same: short, flat, final.
"I don't know."
One day I couldn't let it go.
"If neither of you understands them," I asked, holding up a heavy volume of old poetry and essays, "why do we keep buying these?"
He didn't even look up from his newspaper at first.
Finally, he lowered it just enough to meet my eyes.
"Does not understanding something mean we can't own it?" he said, voice calm, almost amused. "We put them on the shelf. When guests come, it looks good. Impressive. Educated family, right?"
He folded the paper and went back to reading, like he had just explained the weather.
I stood there, book heavy in my hands, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
That wasn't why people bought books.
That wasn't why anyone filled a home with words they never intended to read.
Something about his answer felt wrong. Deliberately wrong.
Like the books weren't for me at all.
Like they were part of some quiet performance... a mask the family wore when the world was watching.
I didn't push it again.
I stopped asking questions.
But from that day on, every time I pulled a new volume from the shelf, I wondered.
Who were these books really for?
And why did it feel like the more I read, the less I actually knew about the people keeping me locked inside with them?
By the time I started middle school, I had changed completely.
The wild troublemaker from elementary school was gone. Teachers praised me as quiet, diligent, and the perfect student. My parents nodded with quiet relief.
The punishments, the locked doors, had ended years ago.
But lately, those memories refused to stay buried.
They came back in my dreams, night after night, vivid and suffocating.
The click of the lock. The endless silence. The walls are pressing closer.
I would wake up gasping, heart racing, the taste of old fear still in my mouth.
That puzzled me more than anything.
As I grew older, I understood why my parents had done it. I had been uncontrollable. Dangerous, even.
What I couldn't understand was why those memories, once so raw and painful, now haunted me worse than ever.
Maybe it was because I had spent so many years shut inside, lost in books, rarely stepping outside.
My body had paid the price.
Compared to my classmates, I was pale, weak, and fragile.
Dizzy spells hit me in class without warning. The room would spin. My vision would blur.
The homeroom teacher noticed. She pulled my parents aside, voice full of concern.
They listened, nodded, and promised to keep an eye on me.
But nothing changed.
By now, I was used to it. Comfortable, even.
A true homebody.
My parents couldn't drag me out the door even if they tried.
Dad just shrugged in the end. "It's still better than having a troublemaker," he said, half-joking, half-serious.
After school that day, I walked home with my backpack as usual, my mind still caught on the dream from the night before.
Suddenly, mid-step, a violent explosion of pain erupted inside my head.
My vision blurred, my mind felt like it was swelling beyond its limits, and my body went limp.
I collapsed forward, the ground rushing up toward me.
Just before I hit the pavement, strong arms caught me.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the hard ground, staring up at an old man.
He looked down at me with quiet concern.
"You're awake," he said softly. "Take care of yourself, young man."
I blinked, still dazed. "Thank you… for helping me."
He gave a small nod, then stepped back.
I pushed myself up slowly. He watched a moment longer, then turned and walked away down the street without another word.
I stood there a second, brushing dirt off my clothes, then headed home.
When I pushed open the door and stepped inside, Mom looked up from the kitchen.
One glance at my face was enough.
"Lian, you're white as paper. What happened?"
Her voice was already tight with worry.
I didn't hide it. I told her everything: the sudden sharp pain in my head, collapsing in the street, waking up with an old man helping me.
Mom's eyes widened.
"We're going to the hospital. Right now."
She was already reaching for her bag.
Dad was sitting in the living room, newspaper in hand. He lowered it slowly.
"No need," he said, calm and flat. "He's standing here talking, isn't he? Probably just low blood sugar or heat. Kids faint sometimes."
Mom spun toward him. "He collapsed in the street! A stranger had to help him!"
"And he's fine now." Dad's tone stayed even, but there was steel under it. "No fever, no injury. You want to drag him through a crowded hospital for nothing?"
They went back and forth, voices sharpening.
I stood in the doorway, feeling the argument build.
Finally I spoke up. "I don't want to go. I feel okay now."
That should have ended it.
But Mom wasn't ready to let go.
Dad folded the newspaper with deliberate care, looked straight at her, and said quietly:
"Just looking for another excuse to visit your old classmates again, aren't you?"
The room went dead silent.
Mom froze.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Dad's eyes held hers for a long second, cold and knowing.
Then he lifted the newspaper again, like nothing had happened.
I felt the air change, thick with something sharp and unspoken.
Mom turned away quickly, busying herself at the sink so I wouldn't see her face.
But I saw it anyway.
The hurt. The flash of guilt.
And something else I couldn't name yet.
My stomach twisted.
Whatever Dad had just thrown at her, it wasn't really about the hospital.
It was about something older.
Something hidden.
And for the first time, I realized the locked doors of my childhood might not have been the only secrets in this house.