One Mississippi

My left sock has a hole in it. I can feel the cold floor through it.

I’m pretty sure it didn’t have a hole when I put them on this morning.

The least of my concerns right now, though.

The wool from the winter coat next to me keeps scratching my cheek, and I’ve been holding back a sneeze from the stale air and dust since I crawled back here. 

Most importantly, I don’t know where he is.

The closet I’m crouched in is pitch black, not too different from the rest of the house around it at this hour. I don’t know how he’s getting around in his search for me.

Well, his search for someone.

The darkness is starting to make me feel dizzy. I hold my hand in front of my face to test what I can see.

Yep, nothing.

My heart is still pounding in my chest, on edge after the mad dash down the stairs and the fear of being found.

At first, I could hear his footsteps on the floor above me, pacing around looking for signs of something, someone. 

But now, it’s quiet. Quieter than I’ve ever heard the house before.

I don’t know which I prefer: the noise, or the silence.

I never understood that phrase “deafening silence.” How can silence be deafening? That’s literally the opposite of what it is.

But I get it now. Has my heartbeat always been so loud? Is the rest of the house actually quiet, or are my breaths drowning it all out? I can’t tell if I can hear everything or nothing.

I’m pressed against the far back wall of the closet, buried behind piles of coats and jackets, and all I can hear is sound.

The air from my nose and my throat and my lungs, in and out, in and out. The fabric of my pajamas rubbing against the canvas of an older overcoat, a soft scratch I’ve never noticed before. The crinkle in my ears and the sound of my tongue pressing against the roof of my mouth with every swallow.

He can’t hear these, right?

A refrigerator nearby hums gently, and I tell myself any noise I might make would be drowned out by that.

I take a steadying breath in through my nose, counting to myself - one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi. A trick my mom taught me. It helps to settle the nerves in my stomach, but the smell of the musty air makes me want to cough. I fight to hold it in, focusing just as hard as on the breath out. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi.

The smell of the must mixes with hints of laundry detergent, and my stomach suddenly protests. The dizziness in the darkness wins out for a moment and I grab a coat next to me to steady myself. The metal of the hanger scratches along the rod.

The sound drowns out the noise from my own body and helps ground me, but I let go in a panic.

Please don’t let him hear that.

He can’t find me this time. It can’t be me this time.

A wave of panic hits me, and I want to cry. I feel trapped and alone. I don’t know where the others are. I don’t know when I’ll be safe again.

I swallow gently, focusing again on the fabrics around me, the cool air coming into my lungs and the warm air that lands on the jacket in front of me, blowing back softly on my face. A metal zipper scraping along my arm, too soft to hurt and too gentle to tickle. The brush of a fur-lined hood reaching my neck that I fight the urge to brush away, fearing losing my balance again. The soft poke of a hang–

The door above me squeaks as it opens. My stomach drops. 

His footsteps creep down each step, the creak of the old floorboards giving him away but without the urgency I would expect if he knew I was in here.

This is it. I’ve lost his stupid game.

I thought he’d come straight to the closet. It seems like the most obvious spot. Instead, he takes his time going through the room. Is it on purpose? I can’t help but wonder. Does he know what he’s doing? Is he enjoying the torment with these games of his?

I try to bury myself deeper in the closet, praying the sounds of the fabrics don’t travel through the closet doors. I hear the dryer door open. It closes a second later. The washer door is next. He doesn’t close that one.

How would someone even close those doors from the inside?

Footsteps continue around the space. I lose track of where he is.

He’s going to check here, right? Maybe he won’t. Maybe he forgot it’s here.

An unexpected silence fills the room again. The seconds stretch endlessly. I start to wonder if I imagined him coming down the stairs at all. How is he being so quiet? 

I wait, straining to hear the creak of a step on the old wooden stairs, frozen in anticipation. I crave the sound so badly, I start to imagine noises, disoriented again, no longer able to tell what sounds are real versus what I just want to hear. 

Finally, the silence breaks.

Right outside the closet door.

Damn.

“One Mississippi.”

He knows I’m in here. He’s taunting me. 

“Two Mississippi.”

This is funny to him.

“Three Mississippi.”

I hold my breath as the closet door opens.

The light in the closet flicks on, and I flinch in the sudden brightness.

He doesn’t see me.

I want to squeeze my eyes closed to block out the light. I want to shrink away and bury myself further. I want to scream at him and fight to get away.

I do nothing.

He still doesn’t see me.

My lungs beg for air.

I still don’t breathe.

“I know you’re in here, Tyler. I heard the basement door open.”

He doesn’t know, I tell myself. He’s just guessing.

Slowly, he starts shuffling through the jackets as I press further back against the wall, using his movements to cover my own.

My lungs reach their limit and my eyes start to water. Slowly I let air out, head spinning and legs shaking, fighting every instinct to not take a big gulp back in.

If this is how it ends for me, he has to find me himself. I’m not giving myself away like that.

His movements get more aggressive. He’s annoyed.

He can’t find me.

He sighs in frustration and pulls back. 

I can’t believe it.

He’s giving up.

I’m going to be ok.

With a final act of determination, he shoves his arms deep into the closet, his whole body behind the force.

I feel the pressure from it against my chest.

He freezes.

Oh no.

I still can’t see him, but somehow I know he knows. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls away layer by layer, closing the gap between me and him.

With my stomach in a knot and the cake from a few hours ago suddenly threatening to make a reappearance, I close my eyes and brace myself.

“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.”

The final layer is pulled away. 

“Hello, Tyler.”

My older brother grins at me, raising his hand to deliberately push into my shoulder, knocking me off balance.

“You’re it.”

My second time losing tonight, and at my own birthday party at that. The guys are never going to let me forget this.

With a laugh, he turns and runs away, sprinting back up the stairs and calling to the remaining hiders that the game is over. I untangle myself from the flurry of coats and make my way to rejoin the group.

“One more game?” I ask, giddy and shaking from my time in hiding.

One more, they all agree, half of them with frosting still around their mouths. It’s almost three in the morning, but it feels like we could stay up all night.

“Ready?” I close my eyes as they start running.

“One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”