SO here we go,
tag I will post my first story called "The Dooor" for you to enjoy. It is pretty short and focusses on the paranoia a person can experience once they are taken out of there every day setting. Seeing that I straight copied it from my document the formatting was shifted but it is free boys and girls. The Door will be an extra in one of my books.
I hope you enjoy : "The Door".

“The Door” by Chris Flemish. CA 2012
A dim light fell through the crack underneath the weathered door, faintly illuminating the cold concrete steps; in the distance a muffled sound broke the long persisting silence. Footsteps.
Fast, pacing back and forth.
Who was it this time? Would they come for him? Should he scream, or should he walk up the stairs to be close to the door when it opened? Maybe he could surprise them. Maybe he could pull one of them down the stairs and break his neck.
“How long has it been? I can’t remember. It must have been weeks now. It can’t be days. Weeks. Yes weeks, it must be.”
He couldn’t remember. The only reference to day or night would be the occasionally light that would shine underneath the crack of the door.
That damn door.
A simple piece of wood; a dead tree sliced into pieces and glued together. A mighty thick door, but still it was nothing but wood.
The first day he had tried pretty much everything that came to mind. Banging it, kicking it, slamming his shoulder into it.
At the end of the day it was quite simple.
Door 3 - Idiot 0.
His hands hurt from the pounding; his bones felt bruised and the skin that held them together was severely inflamed. His toes were numb, throbbing within his shoes. He was slowly going insane; he tried to count the days but somewhere he lost count.
The damp basement was stripped to the bones. At the end of the first night he had found a mattress. As he laid down on it, he noticed it was wet. He sat up and in the darkness he started feeling all over the mattress. His fingers slowly prodded over the damp surface. The puddle seemed to be confined to the middle of the mattress. It wasn’t water and it wasn’t piss. Its consistency was a little thicker. He sniffed his finger and recognized the smell right away.
BLOOD.
He jumped off the mattress , falling backwards, crawling into the opposite corner. His heart franticly beating in his chest. Padaboom Padaboom Padaboom.
What games were they planning, what is going on here?
Shivering. Shaking. Pulling his hair.
The silence was killing him. Once in a while he would hear footsteps, or a door slamming shut. But what slowly drove him insane was the sound of the individual drops of water falling from the ceiling splashing on the concrete floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound seemed to mock him.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Never ending. As time flew by the sound only amplified.
STOP.
STOP.
No, no noooooo.
His screams bounced off the walls.
Thoughts flying in and out his mind. Who is keeping me here? What could they possibly want? Whose blood was on that mattress? He tries to recall all the people he owed money. One, Two, Five. It’s not even more than 50 bucks. No; no one would get me for 50 bucks? He tried to think who he had pissed off in his short life? The list went on and on. He was so focused on recalling names that he didn’t notice the short moment the door opened and then slammed shut.
An aluminum can bounced off the concrete steps. Klang, tonk, bang, tink, tonk. Metallic punches echoed through the darkness.
Silence.
He crawled on his hands and knees swiping the floor in front of him as he slowly moved towards the stairs. His fingers touched the aluminum can as it rolled away. “No, come here.” He jumped forward. Like a cat on its prey, grabbing the can with both hands. He felt his way around the can and felt a lip on top. Carefully he peeled it open. His fingers penetrated the thick goop.
Using them as a spoon he shoved the raviolis in his dried mouth. Chef Boyardee became a staple in his imprisonment. Spaghetti O’s, dinosaurs and meatballs, He had them all.
The first day he ate them, he got massive cramps.
“No, ooh please no, no no, please oow,” he ran to the farthest corner and as he unbuttoned his pants a flood of diarrhea erupted from his rectum. His pants flopped around his ankles and his arms desperately pushed him away from the wall, simultaneously trying to maintain his balance and his pants from getting shit on.
Slowly but surely his body had gotten used to only eating the canned goodies, but not until he return to the far corner a few more times.
Twice a day a can came trickling down the stairs. Sometimes it even arrived in pristine condition. This was the highlight of his day, but most of the time the angle of impact and the can didn’t agree and the wonders of Chef Boyardee spilled all over the concrete steps. He would have to feel his way around and scrape the food of the stairs. Glucose enriched tomato sauce with a little hint of dirt. Mmmm finger licking delicious.
The drops slowly dripping from the ceiling formed his only source of water. That became crystal clear when the only thing provided was canned food. He found the impact zone and placed his empty cans all over it. Once full he would drink the murky spaghetti sauce infused water. And in return a few more trips to the far corner were added to his repertoire. He didn’t even smell his own shit anymore. His senses had all been numbed. His mind had shut down. It was only focusing on survival, trying to make it through this. Trying to stay somewhat sane.
After his first few nights sleeping on the concrete floor using the bottom step as a pillow he returned back to the corner with the mattress. He used his shirt to cover up the location where he thought the blood had been and rolled himself up in a ball. The pain, the sheer pain was driving him nuts. The lack of nutrients had started to infected his gums.
The dirt added to his meals didn’t help either.
The air was damp, moist, and heavy as if he was trapped inside the belly of some sort of beast. His skin itched and with the little water he was able to collect he could not waste a drop on washing himself. He kept one extra can of water everyday so he could wash his ass after he was done doing his business.
He was longing for a hit. One sweet long hit. Just thinking about it made his fingers tremble. At this point he could care less about the quality or the price of the stuff. Just a few minutes of sweet ecstasy. Just one brief moment that he could escape his hell. It had been so long.
More footsteps. More than one pair.
Two.
Two pair; there is more than one person here.
How many are there? How many are they?
Who are they?
Mumbled noises, words, but what are they saying?
Focus. Focus, listen, stop breathing, focus.
Nothing.
Just mumbling.
He went back to bed. Sleeping was the only thing he cared about. Escaping was not an option. Trapped. Fucking trapped. How had they even found him?
As he left his house and turned around to close the door, a blanket was thrown over him and he felt a sting in the back of his head. That was it. Next thing he knew he woke up with a giant headache and a small slit of light in front of him. The door. That damned door.
The shaking had slowly made way for more paranoia. He spent every moment awake running scenarios in front of his eyes. Why was he here? Why did they even bother keeping him alive? Would they sell him as a slave? Maybe they wanted to harvest his organs? Did they just want to scare him? Thumbs up for over achieving?
“Help, let me out” he ran up the stairs, banging the door “let me out, pllleeeeaaazzzze, I won’t tell. Pllleeeeaaazzzze.”
Kneeling down he tried to see through the crack underneath the door. No luck. There was no way he could see what was on the other side of that door. He could feel a slight breeze, it was almost nothing, but it was a breeze nonetheless. He hadn’t felt moving air for as long as he could remember. He laid there for a while and fell asleep, calmed by the outside air.
Footsteps, voices, now more clear.
He placed his ear to the ground in front of the slit.
“How’s he doing?” a deep male voice said.
“Good I think; he still screams occasionally, but that should be over soon. He’s eating and figured out there is water dripping in. He’ll be a good one.”
A female voice. That was a woman. Fucking bitch has been keeping me locked in here. Who is it? What did I ever do? Names and faces flashed by and he just couldn’t think of one woman he’d ever pissed off so much to disserve this. Well maybe one or two, but that was years ago. “He’ll be a good one” What do they mean?
See.
See. They have plans for me.
Fuckers. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No, no, I won’t be a good one. He kicked and screamed against the door.
“You think I’ll let you get away with this, you pieces of shit. NEVER, you hear me NEVER. Open this door you motherfuckers, I’ll kill you all. Come on you pussies.”
Footsteps.
Slowly leaving.
“Come back, come back you assholes, coooommme back.” He slides down the steps. Gasping for air, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“No, please God, no don’t let them do this.” He’s crying violently, gasping for air as he tries to speak. Slowly he fades to sleep; sobbing and crying.
Day unknown, how long have I been trapped here? He tries to remember, he can’t. The Simplest basic things elude him.
My name is? My name is? He forgot. I am, I am,…
He was 25 but he couldn’t even remember that.
I’ve been kidnapped. They want to sell me or kill me. They think they are winning. Ha. Bullshit, No one wins except me. No one will get me. “NO ONEEE” he swings his fist into the air, as if fighting an imaginary giant.
Slowly he crawls towards the corner with the empty cans.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you alright.” He feels around and takes a can in his hands. Carefully he starts peeling of one of the lids, then another, and another, and another. He takes his little stash of lids and slithered to the stairs. He takes one lid and gently starts to ply it. Twisting the aluminum, gently pounding it on the floor. Carefully adding a second lid and a third and a forth. After some time and the necessary blood loss he stops.
Yes, this will work just fine. By touch he admires his self made weapon.
Light, somewhat strong . Feeling the tip of the homemade dagger he is pleased to feel it punctures his finger. He slides it in his pants. As soon as they would try to get him, he’d have a surprise waiting for them. It wasn’t until a few days later that he would get his chance.
Noise.
Lots of noise.
Footsteps trample on a wooden floor. He wakes up, scrambling himself to the wall. His sweat soaked back presses against the cold concrete wall.
This is it; they’re here to get us. The moment of truth.
He reaches for his makeshift dagger. With a quick pull he rips some cloth off his shirt and wraps it around his fist. The dagger in his hand shakes in unison with his quivering teeth. His breathing fast and heavy. He stares towards the door.
That dammed door.
It swings open and the bright light penetrates deep into his cell.
Here they come, here they come, this is it. Damn you, damn you. His muscles so tense it cause his entire body to shake, his mind spinning around at a hundred miles an hour. Ready for battle, but just not quite sure of how it all will go down.
One thing he was sure of, was that they would not get him alive.
Minutes passed and nothing happened.
The door; that dammed door was wide open but no one had come down. The fresh air flowing down the steps smelled so good. He inhales deeply, pulling every last molecule into his lungs. He can smell the outside, car fumes, grass, cigarette smoke. How wonderful plain old air could be.
No one. No one is coming …
What are they waiting for?
The best defense is an offense he remembered. He slowly gets up. His breathing normal and the shivering now under control. Cautiously he walks towards the steps. Peeking around the corner. The light blinds him, hurts like a motherfucker.
He holds his hand in front of his eyes and dodges his head in and out of the light a few times to see if anyone is paying attention.
Nothing.
No one.
A slight sound catches his attention.
There is someone there, they are just waiting. They are playing with me. They want to drive me crazy. Hahaha, crazy hahaha ccrraazy hihi. Fuck ‘em, I’ll do what I want. I’ll show them.
His fists tighten as he runs up the steps while he lets out a bone shivering cry.
As he ejects from the basement he plunges his dagger deeply into his chest.
“Who’s a good one now assholes, who’s a good one now. Come get me now.” Hahaha. He falls to his knees, coughing blood. “Who’s a good one now?”
Twisting his dagger, the sharp aluminum shreds his flesh and penetrated his lungs. He can feel the warm blood soak his shirt, trickling down his body. His breathing heavy and his throat fills up with blood.
Screams echo through the room.
His heart beats muffles the sound in his ears. He leans forward trying to hold himself up while swinging his dagger from left to right.
“Who’s a good one now?” He mumbles, blood drips from his mouth every time he tries to speaks.
Footsteps.
Closer and closer; many footsteps.
Screams, panicked voices. He can’t make it all out. He is laying on his back now. Someone is pushing on his chest, warm hands hold his head.
“Michael, Michael, don’t go Michael. Please stay with us Michael. Fight, come on.”
“Mom” he thinks, what is she doing here?
“Michael please, we were just trying to help you, please Michael.”
He fades away.
“It’s ok Mom, it’s ok” small kisses against her cheek. “He’s at peace now.” Jessica says. “You did everything you could.” Jessica’s arms wrap around her “My boy, my poor boy. NO! He’s my boy, M Y BOY” she weeps on Jessica’s shoulder and her tears soak the pink sweater she’s wearing.
“We should have never locked him up there, I should have never let them talk me into this, I should have taken him to a real rehab place. Damned insurance companies. It’s all my fault, it is all my fault… “
Michael’s mom keeps on sobbing and crying, holding Michaels face in her hands.
Jessica tries to soothe her mom.
In the distance sirens ring through the air.
The silhouette of a man is reflected on the wall as he takes down the congratulation sign and the balloons.



Michael Thompson
Beloved Son
August 21 1976 – December 28 2008