Prompt Time

What the what? Let's pretend my last post wasn't more than a week ago, mmmkay? I also won't regale you with tales of how much I did not write. That was then, this is now. And now here is my response to the prompt: The locked door fascinated and puzzled her.

----------

She was in a closet. That much she knew. The bottom of a musty coat brushed against her face and when she shifted, she heard metal hangers rattle over her head. Why she was in a closet and how she got there, Greta had no idea. The last thing she remembered was dropping her keys outside after she left the gym and bending over to pick them up. Touching her face, Greta felt a lump on her right temple and her mouth was filled with the coppery taste of pennies. Blood. A cut on the inside of her lower lip stung when she ran her tongue over it and her nose ached; she must have done a spectacular face plant in the parking lot.

Reaching out with her hands, Greta felt for the way out. There was no light, natural or otherwise, and so blinded, she groped around herself for the door. A bubble of panic rose from the pit of her stomach, but she tamped it down. There was time enough later for a meltdown- right now she had to get out of here. Her hands found the door. There was no door knob and for a brief moment, the locked door fascinated and puzzled her. Aren’t doors supposed to have knobs?

“Damn.” She released a pent-up breath. There was nothing fascinating about her situation. There was no door knob. There was no light and there was no door knob and there was no way out. The panic bubble broke free from its tether and began to rise even further.

Greta braced herself for a scream when a sound made her freeze in place, mouth open and feet placed against the door ready for a good kick. Heavy footsteps, coming closer.

-------------

And with that, I commit once again to writing a weekly post. Next week I'll talk about the Draft That Isn't. Or maybe the Draft That Is Sort Of. We'll see.