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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I cannot believe I can see my own breath. To amuse myself, I try making shapes; it doesn't work. I see how fogged up the glass on the door is. I consider drawing on it, and realize my fingers will stick. I wait about fifteen minutes. This time, I consider writing backwards "I am trapped. Let me out!" Even if I lose a bit of skin, someone might see it. By this time, it's a half hour. I take out a cigarette, but my lighter won't ignite. I shake it upside down, hold it in my hands, and it lights. Ah. At least one thing to calm my nerves. How did I even end up in here, I wonder. Then, I remember. I suppose my brain was going a bit numb, for me to forget. It's only been thirty minutes. The dim-witted Mr. Cross, locked me in here while I was unloading boxes. He found it amusing; since I put hot pepper on his sandwich once, not knowing he was allergic. I guess this was his revenge. Does he realize though, that I could freeze to death, in here? Does anyone realize that I am not at my station? I scream, but no one hears me. I pound on the door, the walls. My hands start to hurt. I think I may have split a knuckle opened. I see blood, but it is not dripping. I dip my hand in a bag of ice, near the corner, on the right side. I start feeling it go numb, and I pull it out to finish my thought about writing on that door. I walk over to it, and I feel goose bumps. Unfortunately, I didn't grab my sweat shirt, before I came in here. Feeling like my arms are going to fall off, I go to write on the door. As soon as I start, I hear a voice. "Is someone in there?" I yell, "Yes". The door opens, it's the janitor. He asks what happened, while handing me his sweater. Then after I finish, he smiles. I ask him if he found this amusing. His response was a simple, "Yes. The door doesn't lock from the inside".
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