Behind Closed Doors
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the walls of my room, which seem to close in on me a little more each day. I’m sixteen, but inside, I feel so much older- like I’m trapped in a life I didn’t choose. My name is Ace, and I’m drowning in the haze of my own thoughts, feeling like a prisoner in the home I live in.
The world outside my window look so vibrant and full of life. I can see kids riding bikes, parents walking their dogs, and neighbours exchanging pleasantries. Yet, it feels like a distant reality, barely touching the existence I lead behind 4 sterile walls. I glance at the clock, and time ticks by slowly, lazily, mocking me. it’s late afternoon-prime playing-outside time, yet here I am stuck inside, feeling so lost.
I take a deep breath and pull myself up. The walls of my room are plastered with pages of things that I have written, but lately my wring feels stifled under the weight of everything pressing down on me. I can’t find the motivation to point or to express anything really.
It’s not like my home life is awful. Its just awkward. I couldn’t even go to a funeral of a close family friend or my Mama before she Passed away.
It feels like they view every outing as a potential disaster, and in their quest to keep me “safe”, they’ve created this part of me that I Hate, They’ve build this bubble around me. But the bubble has become a cage, and I feel suffocated.
“dinner’s ready!” My old carer used to call from the kitchen, her voice so cheerful and bright oblivious to the storm swirling inside me.
“coming!” I reply, but my heart isn’t in it. I push against the rising sensation in my throat, the bitterness of unspoken words that threaten to spill. As I head to the kitchen, it feels like I’m in a role I have to play — A cheerful, obedient child compliant enough to avoid confrontation.
The dining room is just as it always is: my Carers sit at the table, talking about their day. their laughter rings out, and it feels so foreign to me. I force a smile, but within, I’m screaming, feeling like an outsider in a family I don’t even know. I sit down, my food is going cold as I hardly touch it, my thoughts are focused on the walls when my Carer asks, “Ace, why aren’t you eating, is everything okay?”
“yeah, I’m fine,” I respond, my voice crackling slightly. I can’t let then see how much I’m struggling. I can’t bear to watch the realization on their faces that their foster child — this Kid who seems to have it all together- might actually be suffering.
The conversation shifts, and they go back and forth about their work. I find myself tuning out, letting my mind drift to the moments I used to cherish-hanging out with my friends, climbing red-bridge, laughing until it hurt. I miss that life, but it feels so far away now.
As dinner wraps up, I retreat to my room desperate to find solace. My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps at the thought of a message. It’s Samuel. a good friend since childhood. “hey, you good? Wanna meet up at the park?”
My stomach flips with anxiety. I want to see him so badly, but the thought of asking for permission claws at me. I don’t know what my carers will say. they don’t really want me to be out with people if they don’t really know the parents. Taking a deep breath, I type back, “yeah, I’d love to.”
A moment later, I glance at the time on my watch again. I have just a few minutes to make this happen. Grabbing my jacket, I push past my anxiety and resolve to sneak out. I know it’s wrong, but more than anything, I need to feel alive again.
As I step into the hallway, every creak of the floorboards feels loud in the silence of the house. My heart races as I make my way toward the front door, and I hold my breath, Praying that nothing will stop me. The door swings open, and I step outside. The air is cool and refreshing — every breath fills my lungs with the scent of fresh grass and freedom.
I take off running, my feet pounding against the pavement, exhilaration coursing through me. every step is a rebellion, a small act of defiance against the life of confinement I've been living. I picture Samuel waiting at the park, his small grin and infectious laughter making the world feel a little less heavy.
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When I arrive, I see Samuel sitting on a swing, kicking his feet, clearly bored. His face lights up when he sees me. “you made it!” he exclaims, jumping of the swing as if the weight of the world has just been lifted from him.
“I thought I’d run away for a bit,” I laugh, though the truth feels heavy in my chest. We start walking through the park, the sun beginning to set, casting a warm glow over everything. For a moment, I can forget about the suffocating walls that confine me, the pressures that loom over my head.
“What’s been going on with you?” Samuel asks, breaking the comfortable silence. I feel the urge to tell him everything, to spill the thoughts that plague me in the dead of night. But how can I explain a lifetime of feeling trapped within a few sentences?
“It’s just been… complicated,” I finally say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t really feel like myself lately.”
He nods, understanding. “Sometimes I feel that way too. Like I’m stuck in my life, you know?”
I smile, grateful for his honesty. “Yeah. It’s hard to see a way out.”
As we continue our walk, I find myself staring at the sky, painted with hues of orange and pink. It feels like there’s a fire in the horizon — the kind of fire that can ignite transformation. I want to feel that fire within me again. I want to be more than just the name on a care chart or the kid who has to stay inside. I want to reclaim my life, piece by piece.
When we reach the baseball diamond, we decide to sit on the grand stands, taking in the view. “Just us, huh?” I say, glancing at the empty field. “No pressure.”
“Exactly,” Samuel replies, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head. “We can just be. No expectations.”
As the darkness settles around us, I start to feel lighter. We talk about everything — how school feels stifling, how friends drift apart, and how sometimes, it seems impossible to escape the routines dictated by adults. It’s comforting; I realize how much I’ve missed these moments of genuine connection.
But as the night deepens, a shadow flickers at the back of my mind. The return home weighs heavily on me like a stone. I know that soon I’ll have to go back to the stale aroma of confinement, the masked conversations that feel more like obligations than connections.
“I should probably head back,” I finally say, my voice tinged with reluctance.
“Yeah, I get it,” Samuel replies, his own gaze flickering down the darkening path. “But, hey, just remember you aren’t alone in this, okay? You can always reach out.”
I nod, the warmth of his words wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. As I walk back home, I reflect on the contrast between the night outside and the prison I’ve constructed around myself. Maybe I can carry a piece of this freedom with me.
When I finally slip back into the house, I feel the familiar weight pushing down on me but also the pulse of possibility within — it’s a cost I’ll pay for even the briefest taste of liberation. The house is quiet; everyone must be asleep. I pause, just for a moment, allowing myself to breathe in the silence. I stand in the dark hallway, letting my mind swirl with thoughts of how I can create a different reality, one step at a time.
Perhaps I can’t break free all at once, but I can start to carve out little pockets of freedom — during weekends, after school, or even just through my writing. I’m determined to find a way to turn the noise in my head into something beautiful, to transform these feelings of imprisonment into a compelling story of resilience.
I climb into bed, wrapping myself in the covers like armor, preparing to face another day behind closed doors. But tonight, I hold onto the glimmer of hope that tomorrow might be different, that I can start reclaiming my identity, one moment at a time. I am Ace, and even though I feel like a prisoner now, I refuse to remain one forever.
