Why Did You Bring Me Here?
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I was editing my novel late last night and saw that Gillian had posted a horror flash fiction writing prompt. I took a look, and it caught my eye. I finished up my to-do list for editing the chapter and wrote a flash fiction piece. I like how it turned out. This one came in at 148 words.
Why did you bring me here?
"Why did you bring me here?" I asked.
My four-year-old self smiled, pointing at the room before me.
The place felt so familiar, though I hadn't seen it in decades.
Dinosaur sheets stretched over the bed, Legos scattered across the carpet, an empty laundry basket surrounded by dirty clothes.
My old bedroom.
"Why—" my throat caught, stomach clenching.
There, on the floor.
My old Fisher-Price toy phone.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt like sandpaper.
I felt small—as if I had shed dozens of pounds. I glanced down at my own body.
Four. I was four again.
I looked up to find myself alone in my old bedroom. Muffled voices floated in from the hall. Mom? Dad?
"No"—tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging—"No!"
I kicked the phone, and it clattered against the wall. The red receiver fell from the plastic hook.
RING. RING. RING.