Trapped.

Trapped! A story of despair and fight for survival.

Trapped. 

A dimly lit apartment. The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and unwashed skin, the unmistakable residue of days without care. The curtains remain drawn, suffocating the space in a dull, unbroken gloom. 

A table in the corner, cluttered—a laptop, books sprawling haphazardly. A lamp stands nearby, its bulb flickering weakly.  

In the middle of the room, a couch, sunken and worn, and at its edge, a man—still, withdrawn. Levy. 

In front of him, a coffee table, its surface lost beneath a mess of crumpled papers, abandoned coffee mugs, and lingering neglect.  

The kitchen counter tells the same story—dishes stacked precariously by the sink, remnants of past meals hardening into permanence. Days of avoidance. Weeks, maybe. The coffee stains on the counter—some dried, some drying, some still fresh—are the only markers of passing time. 

At the apartment entrance, a garbage bag leans against the door, overstuffed, its contents spilling onto the floor—a silent testament to mounting disregard. Papers are scattered everywhere—on the floor, on the counter, on the reading table—bills, past-due notices, letters, unopened and untouched. 

The clock ticks steadily on the wall—unbothered, indifferent. 

Levy sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. His breath is slow, weighted. His eyes—hollow, ringed with dark crescents—remain locked on the floor, unmoving, unblinking. Beside him, a coffee mug, half-empty, cold. He hasn’t taken a sip in hours. Maybe longer. 

The weight of it all is not sudden, not abrupt. It is slow. Creeping. Smothering. Work. Money. Expectations. Deadlines. Bills. The relentless, never-ending struggle to keep up. 

He drags a hand through his unkempt hair, exhales from deep within his chest. His phone buzzes on the table. He doesn’t check. He already knows. Another bill. A rejection. A reminder of everything left undone. 

He presses his fingers against his temples. The world outside moves without him—the distant hum of the city, the occasional car passing, footsteps echoing down the hallway. People exist. They live. They move. 

He does not. 

It feels like watching life through glass—close enough to see, too far to touch. 

Then, the thoughts tighten, wrapping around his skull, pressing against his ribs— 

It’s too much. 

I’m drowning. 

No one sees it. 

No one cares. 

His chest constricts. He swallows, but it doesn’t go down. His fingers dig into his skin. The walls seem closer. The air feels heavier. 

“I’m tired,” he whispers, his posture unchanged. “Why does it have to be this hard?” 

His voice is hoarse, foreign, barely above a whisper. 

Then— 

A flicker. 

A shift in the air. 

Something new. 

Levy’s head lifts, his gaze drifting toward the corner of the room. A space that has always been empty. A space that should still be empty. 

But it isn’t. 

A door stands there. 

Wooden. Old—yet new to this room. 

A glowing metal plate is bolted at its center, the letters burned into its surface: 

PEACE. 

Levy stares. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. His mind trips over itself. 

This door wasn’t there before. 

It shouldn’t be there now. 

His heart pounds—not in fear, not in panic, but something else—unfamiliar, unsettling, yet undeniably present. 

The door is ajar. 

Beyond it, a darkness deeper than any shadow beckons. 

The pull is subtle, but firm. 

Not forceful. Not demanding. 

Just… waiting. Encouraging. Soothing. 

Levy doesn’t stand. Not right away. He just stares at the door. He does not shift. 

It doesn’t belong there. It shouldn’t be there. And yet, it is. 

The metal plate marked PEACE seems to pulse, the letters glowing softly, almost breathing.  

Levy’s chest tightens. A cold whisper moves through the air, brushing off his skin like unseen fingers. He should be afraid. 

But he isn’t. 

The pull gets stronger and stronger. Gentle, unrelenting. A quiet invitation. A promise wrapped in silence. 

Levy pushes himself off the couch. His legs are unsteady, he staggers, begins to walk to the calling door. The air becomes heavier the closer he gets, pressing against his skin, sinking into his bones. His heartbeat slows, his breath evens. A strange calm overtakes him. 

Staggering, he reaches out. In front of the door. 

His fingers graze the rough wood. It is warm. Too warm. Like something alive beneath his touch. Grazing the door, it keeps creaking wider and wider until it's fully open, offering an empty room.  

The darkness is total. But at the center, a bulb hangs, flickering—glowing just enough to be seen, yet casting no light into the room. 

For a moment he hesitates. A final flicker of rationality. 

Curious, he steps inside. 

Immediately, the air shifts. A subtle pop, as if he’s been sucked into another world. 

He turns— 

The door is gone. 

His stomach clenches. A bolt of panic shoots through his chest. His breath catches. He spins, but there is nothing to touch—only the suffocating air. His hands hover uselessly in space. He begins to tremble.  

His pulse quickens. His breathing turns shallow. This new room is too quiet. The silence stretches, oppressive, thick. Yet, beneath it, something stirs. Faint, distant—a low hum, vibrating through the air. His heart slams against his ribs.  

The light bulb flickers slowly, its glow getting weaker and weaker. The floor beneath him is no longer carpet—it is something else, something smooth and unfamiliar.  

He wants to move, to run, but his feet feel cemented to the ground. 

The walls shift. He can't see them, but the space tightens, pressing against his skin. The air thickens—dense, suffocating. He reaches out, but his hands grasp nothing. And yet, the pressure mounts, closing in, crushing the space around him. 

The space around him breathes. The hum grows. A murmur. A vibration. A sound forming from nothing. 

Levy swallows hard. His breath fogs in the still air. His hands clench. His eyes dart—searching, searching. 

The walls are pressing in. He can't see them, he feels them—everywhere. His chest tightens, his breath shudders, his throat closing as if the very air is turning solid around him. 

Then— 

The bulb flickers, sputters—then dies. The last trace of light swallowed whole. 

Now, it's just him, space, and darkness. 

One with the darkness, weightless, he reaches—grasping for something unseen. But there is nothing. Just empty space.  

Then, the sound swells—no longer a murmur, but a wail. Then a howl. Then a roar. It surges toward him, wrapping around him, crushing the air from his lungs. 

His chest heaves. The air thins. His knees threaten to give. 

The chaos rages on. Roaring. Wailing. The unseen walls groan and press in, trembling with violent noise. Levy’s breath comes shallow, sharp. He raises a hand to his ear, the sound grinding against his skull. Nothing. No shape. No outline. Just the roar closing in. 

The pressure mounts, tightening around his ribs. His breath stumbles—shallow, uneven, swallowed by the voices. 

Then, amid the chaos, a voice. 

A whisper, faint, crawling through the noise like a snake through grass. 

He turns toward it—or at least, he thinks he does. 

Another whisper. Then another. Slithering through the chaos, threading into the storm. They are all saying their own thing. Then they start to morph, growing louder and louder and louder and then—voices! 

The roaring, the wailing—the storm of sound shudders, breaking apart. It doesn’t vanish. It doesn’t stop. It simply fades beneath something stronger. Voices. Choruses—violent and hissing. Nearing and tangled together to pick out any words. 

Louder. Louder. Now a cacophony. Levy clamps his hands over his ears. It doesn’t help. 

Something shifts beneath his feet. 

He stiffens. The ground is moving, like breathing stone. A slow inhale, a slow exhale, 

Then—a sound. Deep. Low. A groan. 

The sound deepens, stretching through the air. A groan—low, guttural. The space around him tightens. 

Levy’s pulse spikes. His hands reach blindly outward, searching, desperate. The pressure mounts, unseen, suffocating. He feels it—space shrinking, the unseen force closing in. 

Another step back— 

His shoulder stiffens—cold air pressing against it. The space is shrinking. He can’t see it, can’t touch it, but he knows… the walls are closing in. 

His breath hitches. The room is getting smaller. It is crushing in. 

A crackle above him. The voices have taken over now, pushing the chaos into the background, commanding the space. They climb, twisting, cracking, fighting for control. Now, words form—violent, hissing, loud. Many voices speaking all at once. 

"YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN!" 

The voices crack, hoarse and jagged. 

"YOU DON'T BELONG!" 

"YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH!" 

“No, no, this isn’t real,” Levy mutters, his voice breaking. His hands clamp over his ears, but the words crawl inside, wrapping around his thoughts, pressing against his skull. His chest tightens. His breath shudders. He turns, searching—desperate—but there is no way out. 

The voices swirl, low, cruel, curling around him like smoke. 

He is trembling. 

He lunges forward— 

His knee jerks forward—then stops. Not against something, but as if space itself has tightened around him, refusing to let him pass. 

The voices tangle, splinter—words twisting, breaking, colliding in a relentless storm of sound. 

His hands search in the dark. He bumps into something. Something is there now. At the center of the room. A table. A small table. 

Something is on it. 

He feels the shapes before he sees them. A table. A bottle. A cigarette. A small pack of pills. 

Then, a flicker. A glow. A single candle at the center of the table—burning, flickering, melting. Had it always been there? It’s nearly gone now, wax pooling into the table like blood, feeding the wood, vanishing into nothing. 

The voices lull. 

The whispers soften. 

For the first time since he stepped into this room... the darkness feels different. Not warm, but not as cold. 

The candle flickers, casting a faint glow, its light struggling against the overwhelming void. The room breathes. It tightens, constricts—its hunger growing. 

Levy stands before the table. The bottle, the cigarette, the pills. The glow of the candle warms his fingertips. 

The whispers change. 

They are no longer scattered, no longer tangled. They take shape, form sentences, speak to him directly. They are soothing. 

"YOU’RE TIRED, LEVY." 

"YOU’VE WORKED SO HARD." 

"YOU DESERVE PEACE." 

The space around him contracts. The air presses against his skin, closing in like unseen hands. 

Levy’s breath shudders. His fingers twitch. He stands staring at the table and its contents. 

The bottle is closest. A dark amber liquid swirls inside, catching the candlelight like melted gold. His mouth dries. 

The voices urge him on, softly, whispering. 

"ONE SIP. JUST ONE SIP." 

He reaches. Passes his fingers against the bottle. Touches it. Picks it up. The whispers soften. 

"YES. THAT’S IT. ONE SIP. GO AHEAD." 

The cigarette is next. A thin wisp of smoke coils from its tip, waiting, offering. A promise. 

He exhales. The weight in his chest, the ache in his bones—it could all disappear. Just for a moment. 

Levy lifts the bottle. 

He drinks. 

The burn is immediate. A warmth that spreads, numbs. The voices murmur in delight. 

"SEE? BETTER ALREADY!" 

He reaches for the cigarette. The moment his fingers graze the paper, the whispers weave together, smoothing into something softer, silkier—seductive in their persuasion. 

"GOOD." 

"WE TAKE CARE OF YOU." 

"LET GO. LET GO, LET GO, LEVY." 

Levy inhales, smoke curling into his lungs. The darkness hums.  

Another drink. 

Another inhale. 

The pills remain. He sees them, placed perfectly in a row, small and waiting, like tiny promises. 

The whispers lean in. 

"IF YOU WANT TO REST, YOU CAN." 

"JUST ONE MORE STEP." 

The candle burns lower. The space around him tightens further. 

Levy reaches— 

The table dissolves. The candle, the bottle, the cigarette, the pills—all vanish, swallowed by the blackness beneath. 

Total darkness. 

And then— 

A rope descends from above. Slowly. Glowing. Swaying gently, like a pendulum. 

The noose is perfectly formed, its loop hanging wide, open, waiting. The fibers are thick, coarse, wound tightly as if woven from the very whispers in the air. It dangles with intent, with purpose. Not just any rope—an ending of hope, a decision, a sentence. 

The moment it is in place—hanging, glowing, inviting—below, a stool appears. A simple wooden thing, worn, fragile, standing directly beneath the noose, waiting. Beckoning. 

Levy’s breath falters. His feet shuffle forward, hesitant, drawn by something beyond his control. 

The voices press in, eager, relentless. 

"STEP UP, LEVY." 

"THIS IS THE ONLY WAY." 

The sound begins again. A distant groan—low, stretching—just like before. The same wail that welcomed him when he first stepped into the darkness. It rises, long and hollow, curling around him. A deep vibration, seeping into his bones. A pressure, unseen yet smothering. It presses against him from all sides. Like before. Like walls shifting, creeping closer, unseen but felt. 

The wailing surges, swelling from all around him, pressing tighter against his skin. It is the same as before, the same crushing weight, creeping closer. Like walls shifting, unseen but felt. He cannot breathe. He cannot think. 

Levy stares at the glowing rope. The pull is familiar. The same pull that led him here. 

He lifts his foot. Stops. His breath is ragged. The rope waits. The stool creaks beneath the rope, beckoning. 

The voices roar. 

"HURRY, LEVY. IT’S TIME. HURRY!" 

"REST AWAITS ON THE OTHER SIDE" 

The wailing deepens, a sound that coils around him, closing in. 

He opens his mouth to speak—but no sound comes. 

The rope calls. The stool beneath it creaks, an invitation, a mercy. A way out. 

With trembling hands, he steps forward. The voices transform. 

No longer soft. No longer silk. Now louder, harsher. 

They are a storm. A violent, wailing tornado. 

"IT’S TIME." 

"YOU KNOW HOW THIS ENDS." 

The voices surge into a cacophony of violent screams. 

"HURRY, LEVY, WE DON’T HAVE TIME." 

"NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE YOU. IT ENDS HERE." 

"IT’S EITHER THE ROPE OR THE WALLS CRUSH YOU!" 

The noise is unbearable. Levy clamps his hands over his ears, but there is no difference. The walls wail. The voices thunder. 

"YOU CAN’T CLOSE US OUT, LEVY. DON’T YOU SEE?" 

"WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU REST, IS THAT NOT WHAT YOU WANT?" 

"WE ARE EVERYWHERE. THE ONLY ONES THAT CARE ABOUT YOU." 

"YOU ARE TRAPPED. IT’S OVER!" 

The noose sways, patient, waiting. 

With shaking hands, Levy reaches for it. He hesitates, but the voices scream. 

"NOW, LEVY. GET ONTO THAT STOOL. THE WALLS ARE NOT WAITING!" 

The wailing intensifies. His pulse pounds in his ears. His foot finds the edge of the stool. It creaks under his weight, the wood trembling like his hands. 

"GOOD, LEVY. GOOD. NOW TAKE THAT ROPE AND PUT IT AROUND YOUR NECK. HURRY!" 

The noose hangs before him, patient, waiting. He lifts the loop over his head. 

The unseen walls wail louder. He looks around, he is afraid. 

The fibers scratch against his skin, coarse and final. His breath shudders, the knot resting at the side of his throat, heavy with intent. 

The stool beneath him wobbles, weak, unsteady. The voices surge in triumph. 

"THE STOOL, LEVY. THE STOOL. JUST PUSH IT AWAY, LEVY." 

"NO MORE PAIN. NO MORE FAILURE." 

The wails reach their peak. The walls press inward, not enclosing, but threatening—they are alive, sentient, their cries deafening. 

"YOU HAVE NO CHOICE, LEVY. NOW, DO IT. NOW!" 

Then— 

From somewhere deep, somewhere untouched by the whispers, a voice breaks through. 

His own. “No, no. I can’t, I can’t do this!” he cries out. 

"YES, YOU CAN, LEVY." 

"KICK THE STOOL!" 

“No, I can’t. I’m afraid,” Levy sobs, clutching the noose around his neck. 

Then— 

He gasps, his voice breaking, "help… please, help!" The wailing roars, drowning his words. He tries again, louder, more desperate, "help, help! someone help me!" 

The voices snarl, their silk-like persuasion shattered, replaced by pure, violent fury. 

"NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU!" 

"THE WALLS ARE CLOSING IN, LEVY! THERE IS NO ESCAPE!" 

The storm rages, the sound crashing into him from all directions. His ears ring, his chest tightens. The wailing deepens, a monstrous howl stretching, waiting to consume him whole. 

"YOU HAVE SECONDS, LEVY! SECONDS BEFORE THE WALLS CRUSH YOU!" 

"THE STOOL OR THE WALLS. CHOOSE!" 

His legs tremble, his breath shatters into frantic gasps. The pressure builds, the space feels impossibly small. His vision blurs. The voices scream, the howling crashes down, the storm suffocates. 

Then— 

"Help. Help!" Levy shouts frantically. "Is anyone there?!" 

The room explodes in fury. The voices scream louder, bursting with rage. 

"NO!" 

"DON’T BE STUPID!" 

A shriek. A deafening rush of wind. The wailing surges forward, roaring in his ears, pressing against him like a storm collapsing inward. 

Then— 

A flicker. A light. A doorway forms from the void, stretching outward, expanding into existence. 

The wailing vanishes. The stool is gone. The noose—gone. 

Levy staggers, his breath ragged. His feet now touch solid ground—flat, unbroken. The sensation jolts him; no more fragile wood beneath him, no more weight of the rope at his throat. The air is still thick, heavy, but different. A shift. The space is changing. 

The floor feels colder, firmer, anchoring him back to something real.  

The voices remain. Violent. 

"IT’S A TRICK, LEVY. IT'S ALL A TRICK." 

He stares at the doorway. A sudden burst of blinding light erupts from its frame, forcing him to shield his eyes. The wailing howls in agony, a violent, enraged cry as if the space itself is being torn apart. 

The voices lash out, shrieking, desperate. 

"NO! YOU STUPID FOOL! YOU CAN’T LEAVE!" 

"IT'S A TRICK, LEVY! A LIE! DON'T GO!" 

The unseen force around him surges, a gust of wind pushing against him, resisting his steps. His breath stumbles. He grips his head, shaking, the screams rattling inside his skull. 

"COME BACK! COME BACK!" 

He forces himself forward. The light intensifies. The pressure behind him mounts, pushing, clawing, demanding. The storm of voices twists, a cacophony of rage and desperation. 

"LEAVE AND YOU’LL REGRET IT!" 

"DON’T WALK AWAY, LEVY! YOU NEED US!" 

He does not listen. He staggers toward the light, his body trembling, the voices fading into shrill of broken echoes behind him. 

Standing at the doorway, the blinding light floods over him, forcing him to shield his eyes with his arm. The air crackles with energy, pressing against his skin. 

Still, the voices remain. 

"DON’T GO." 

"IT’S ANOTHER LIE." 

"YOU THINK THAT LIGHT MEANS SOMETHING? IT’S JUST ANOTHER TRICK." 

Beyond the threshold, it’s just light. No clear shape, no landscape, no promise of safety—only the unknown. A world waiting to be stepped into. 

He stands motionless at the threshold, hesitation anchoring him in place. 

Then—another voice. Not twisted, not cruel. Calm. Reassuring. Calling him from beyond. 

"Levy." 

It’s a woman’s voice. Gentle, steady. 

He scans the empty space around him. Silence lingers for just a breath—then the voices erupt in fury. 

"YOU DON’T DESERVE TO LEAVE." 

"THE OUTSIDE WON’T BE ANY DIFFERENT." 

"WHAT’S LEFT FOR YOU OUT THERE? MORE FAILURE? MORE PAIN? NOTHING MORE." 

"YOU’RE HALLUCINATING. THERE IS NOTHING BEYOND THAT DOOR. JUST ANOTHER TRAP!" 

Levy grips his head. The air thickens, the voices louder than ever, swirling in chaos. But the other voice does not waver. 

"Levy, Levy," it calls, gentle, unwavering. "Come through. It’s alright." 

His hands tighten into fists. His feet feel heavy, anchored by something unseen. His pulse pounds in his ears. 

"One step," the voice urges. "That’s all it will take." 

The voices shriek. The space shudders. 

"STAY! YOU BELONG HERE!" 

"DON’T BE STUPID! IT WILL BE WORSE OUT THERE!" 

"YOU WILL NEVER BE FREE!" 

The pull of the light grows stronger. The calm voice does not plead, does not demand—it only offers. A way forward. 

Levy swallows. He must move. 

He lifts his foot— 

A slow, creeping chill snakes through the air, curling around his skin before surging forward, slamming into him like a final, desperate grasp. The voices twist into a violent storm. 

"It’s alright, Levy. Just step through. I’m here waiting for you." 

He falters—just for a second. His pulse hammers, his breath catches. The voices coil around him, their final chance to pull him back. 

"WHAT’S LEFT FOR YOU OUT THERE? MORE FAILURE? MORE PAIN? NOTHING MORE." 

The voices explode into a final, furious storm—shrieking, clawing, desperate to hold him back. 

His chest tightens. His hands tremble. But the calm voice is still there, steady, waiting. 

He clenches his fists. 

He steps forward, into the light. 

The light engulfs him. The chaos, the voices, the void—everything vanishes in an instant. 

He gasps, his body jerking forward, breath ragged, heart pounding against his ribs. 

He is sitting. A couch beneath him. A well-lit, tidy room around him. 

He blinks. His vision adjusts. 

And then, again. Not an echo. Not a whisper from the void. A voice filled with warmth. With care. 

"Levy?" The voice is calm and soothing, the same one that called him from the chaos. 

She sits across from him, her kind eyes steady, her presence unwavering. 

The last remnants of the dark cling to him, whispering at the edges of his mind, but they are weak now. His fingers press against the couch, grounding himself in its firmness.  

The room feels distant, almost unreal—too bright, too quiet. He exhales, slow and measured, the sensation foreign. Then, hesitantly, he lifts his head, his gaze drifting over the space, his body catching up to the reality settling in around him. He looks around, surprised. 

"Where…who…?" His voice falters, hoarse, unfamiliar as he looks around him. 

She smiles gently. "I’m Ann, your psychiatrist," she says. "You came in with your family hours ago. You’re safe, Levy." 

Levy looks around, confusion clouding his expression. He feels exhausted. 

"It’s alright, Levy. You’re safe now," she soothes him. 

Her voice is soft, grounding. There is no judgment, no expectation—only reassurance. 

"Everything you feared, everything that hurt—you are stronger than it now," she reassures him. 

Levy swallows. "It felt so real." 

She nods; her smile gentle. 

"That’s because it was," she says, "but it’s over now. And you don’t have to face it alone." 

Levy's face forms a slight smile. It’s small, hesitant.  

His fingers loosen against the couch. 

Ann watches him, her presence unwavering. 

A soft knock at the door. A moment of pause. Then, the handle turns. 

End. 

EzroniX Short Stories.