Is claustrophobia a genetic or fully mental disorder?
          The very thought of a small space and no escape can cause a fear that squeezes my throat. I hear about exotic birds locked in tight boxes or tubes by smugglers, for long trips, until they lose consciousness.
          No more details, please!
          I feel them in my limbs and soul, folded until no millimeter can move. The eyes can’t blink, open, or close. My little fingertip needs to scream or scratch, while it can’t cry or sigh. Each part of me realizes . . . no, stop.
          Such feelings keep me awake at night.
          Could Roald Dahl meet Stephen King in present reality?
          The mother of two kids asks me to babysit and I oblige with an open mind, although . . . do some children have this extra sense, the way a dog smells fear?
          Soon after Mom has left, the boy Theo (about six?) locks me in their staircase closet. Why on earth did I go here: to find them a toy or snack? Was this a silly reflex from Theo, or a mad plan? Evil or naïve?
          It’s no ‘walk-in pantry’, but a cramped smallness. I can’t see! Where’s the doorknob? Afraid to grope . . . is there no light switch? Need to kick legs and spread arms or shout. All of which would make things worse. Motion and noise would suck up the breathing space. Confinement is a hand over my mouth.
          I know the procedure: breathe through the nose, nice and slowly, but that seems to be blocked inside.
          Heavy shelves—or what?—are bumping into me, full of objects that can fall and break and bury my legs. I want to shout the house down and bang my fists, but a scrap of brain is hissing, “Don’t aggravate or exasperate, don’t scare them. If they freeze, you won’t get out.”
          I know. Calmness is the only means of rescue. That’s a life-size paradox. Be quiet and save oxygen. They’ve not run off. Or have they? That option makes me break into a sweat. If they are here and I speak in a normal or soothing voice, will it come across through the stubborn and shut door? How thick is it?
          How to trick them or me into kindness? Give them victory?
          Still wondering, actually, where exactly the door is, how badly I’m disoriented, how much time has passed in reality, I can see a tiny strip of light by my feet. That saves me from losing my mind, if it wasn’t gone already, agreeing to come here. At least I know now where to plead and knock or tap softly. “Theo?”
          There’s no answer or any sound like shuffling feet. No matches are being lit? No sniggering hidden in little hands?
          After a tentative pause, I try my kindest, “Lizzie?”
          If she is about four, can she understand what is going on? Enjoying this funny game with a happy or sinister twist? IF either kid is here, to witness the outcome, inevitable or deliberate.
          Does everyone always carry a phone everywhere except me?
          I hate the feel of it in a pocket of my jeans or even jacket, afraid to break it, sit on it, or drop it in the toilet. A phone is not my whole world, heart and soul, but now I’d give anything for one call.
          Where did the Mom have to be? Did she tell me for how long? Unreachable.
          As ‘light’ as might be, trying to reassure myself in the first place, I clear my swollen throat. “Hello . . . are you alright?”
          A silence is gasping.
          I swallow and bite my tongue on this: hey you, mad brats, time to open the door, or else . . . and even on this: please, let me out now. I’m not angry, just frightened in the dark. I’m going to cry. Listen, if it was a joke or an accident, never mind, that happens! I make mistakes all the time! Pranks may fail or bewilder. We can learn from them. When you set me free (pathetic), I’ll tell you my biggest mistake. For God’s sake, I’ll confess messy secrets and regrets.
          Closing my eyes to focus and take the deepest breaths of my life, leaning on the last shred of common sense including black or beet-red humor, I give my desperate best and need to sound convincing. “Who’s in for cookies? Or chocolate bars?”
          And last straws?
          But IF they’re still here, scared or thrilled to bits, this could make them think that I have indeed lost it, and rightly so. Any spiders by my head? With big smiles or defiance? If my condition doesn’t kill me now or get worse for the rest of my life, will it help me survive more trials?
          Mustn’t fool myself, but continue on the safe side.
          “Hello? Are you hungry too? I can do with a nice bite. You? Got some goodies here. What’s your favorite?”
          Are they crying ‘don’t lie!’ or am I wishing too hard that they can hear me at all?
          “Hey, let’s eat the best and watch TV. What shows do you like?”
          Oh no, don’t put that idea into their heads. They’ll bring a heap of popcorn to the TV and forget the rest of the world, if they haven’t already. Maybe they can’t remember what they did in a funny and blind second of impulse: turned the key and dropped it out of sight? This nearly makes me wet myself; what if Mom has no spare key? Who’s got one to a simple closet? I haven’t. And believe me: this black space is shrinking by the minute, beginning to nibble my skin.