Dictionary and Pest

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Dictionary and Pest

January 2010 Saucy Wenches writing prompt.

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There’s something in the dictionary.

I don’t know what to do. Should I leave it? Is it safe to just … leave it there?

I don’t know what it is. Dark and scurried like a bug, like a pest, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t just a bug.

My heart is too fast; my breathing too short. The labcoats will come and stick me with the needle and tell me it’s okay but it’s not, it’s not!

Maybe I should tell them about the dictionary. The thing, trapped in the pages. Squashed, pressed, squeezed somewhere between ‘alliteration’ and ‘violin’.

What if they pry open the jaws of the book and it leaps out? Escapes?

No. It’s trapped now. Safe. I have to believe it’s safe. I’m safe.

I hear footsteps in the hall.

Open the dictionary.

Who said that? It wasn’t me.

Open the dictionary.

I blink.

I’m standing by the door. What happened? I can’t remember. Shouldn’t I be able to remember?

My hands are warm. Wet.

The dictionary is in my hand, open.

I panic. Where is the thing? Where are the labcoats?

The dictionary is red. But it should be blue, I’m sure it was blue. Why is it red?

I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do. I need someone to tell me what to do.

Let’s go outside.

Relief.

Clutching the wrong-colored book, I step over something wearing a red lab coat and open the door.