Inside the confinement of those familiar brick walls, I was safe. Nothing could hurt me. Out there, in the world, there were insects, rabid dogs, diseases, falling buildings—countless situations that presented lethal danger. In my warmly lit room with plush couches and dark crimson furniture, I had control. I couldn't recall the last time I'd let the unfiltered sunlight rain down on my face; I'd erased the memory from my mind. It was too painful. I used to live my life in the open air, my childish ignorance shielding me from reality. I went to school, church, the soccer field, and even art camp. But then I stopped taking risks. I saw life for what it really was: a dangerous existence, filled with hardships and tests I knew I couldn't pass. The thought of the outdoors caused snakes to creep up spine and make my heart pound, sending me to my bed where I lay blankly gazing up at the ceiling.

"Sure." I sounded calm, though I felt anything but. School was another subject that made the snakes dance along my vertebrae. I could fall off the cliff into the sea of failure at any moment; all it took was a simple memory lapse or misjudgment during a test. My mother taught me daily lessons at home, her horn-rimmed glasses, and quiet, assertive tone suggesting that she'd missed her true calling as an educator. I never failed to procrastinate on my assignments, which always made the anacondas constrict around my heart, squeezing tighter as time went by. No matter how much I resolved to break free and overcome them, they always won.

I stood up, starting towards the office. My mother followed me, her hand resting gently on my back. I paused mid stride. "You know what? I was actually thinking of taking a shower before I do anything. I should probably get out of my pajamas." I tugged at my flannel.

Mom's eyebrows scrunched. "Yeah, I guess you should. Just make sure you get that English assignment done sometime today, all right?"

"Will do." I turned around and headed for the bathroom. When I got there, I immediately took a long look in the mirror. I'd mentally bashed my looks so many times already, it was pointless to think them over again. It was a fact. I was not a supermodel. Nothing more could be said. My appearance was like an appendix; it was without purpose. It didn't dazzle. It didn't repulse. I let out a sigh, covering my face with my hands. My mom's polite nagging had my old slithering nemeses riled up again. I wondered if she'd let the assignment slide that day.

I turned on the water, jumping back when the cold spray reached my skin. Steadily, it got warmer. I threaded my fingers through my hair, turning my face directly towards the flow of the stream. The constant dribble of the water against my forehead helped me to think. What if I never finished my schooling? What if I didn't pass that standardized test at the end of the year? Would they make me go to an actual, tangible school? While I was shampooing, I noticed that my hands had started to shake. Once I was done, both with cleaning myself and rambling off frightening questions, I dried off, threw on my clothes, and began brushing my teeth, the toothbrush trembling as I moved it up and down. While I was scrubbing, I heard my cellphone ring in the other room. I spat toothpaste into the sink and rushed out the door. Caller ID told me it was my dad. "Hey."

"Hi sweetheart. Whatcha up to?"

"Just got out of the shower." He waited for a longer answer. He didn't get one. I'm not one to elaborate.

"All right. I was just calling to check up on you. Do you think you could, you know, try and go for a walk today?"

Oh boy. The snakes were drawing blood from my cheeks. "No, Dad," I snapped. "I'm not feeling up to it. I have a headache." I didn't, but I needed an excuse. He tried to contain his sigh, but I still heard it.

"Okay then. Make sure you rest, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear." I hung up. Talking to my dad always put me into a worse mood.

I made my way into my bedroom and glanced at my digital clock, which read twelve-fifteen. Perfect. It was time for lunch already. I couldn't do the assignment now. "Mom?" I shouted, "I'm hungry." She didn't respond for awhile. What if something had happened to her? I became momentarily frozen.

Finally, after too many seconds for my liking, she responded. "I'm really busy with clients right now, can you make something yourself?" Her voice was distant, an echo from across the house. "There's some mac and cheese in the pantry."

Her request was unusual. I was to chef as monkey was to pilot. Taking swift strides through the house, I approached the office and leaned on the doorframe. My mother was frantically bashing on the keyboard, stacks of paperwork piled high around her computer. "But Mom. I don't—"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "All you have to do is boil some water. Come on. You're fifteen already. You can read directions."

  I squeezed my lips together, waiting for her to come down from her strange emotional upheaval and to her senses. She knew I didn't cook. When she picked up her beeping phone, it was pretty clear that she had no intention of helping me out. I allowed a gulp of air to flow into my lungs. So many things could go wrong when I was cooking. I walked to the kitchen as though I was walking off a pirate's plank, full of scared apprehension, racking my brain for ways to get out of my predicament. I tried to take on a ballerina's poise, calm and collected, hoping that my choice of countenance would somehow affect my mindset. This had been a tip from Dr. Patricia. She was sometimes helpful, though her insightful pointers had as high a success rate as products from infomercials on TV.

 I reached for a pot. I filled it with water. Simple steps were what I focused on, praying I didn't mess the mac and cheese up, like I did everything else. I placed the pot onto the stove. I turned the burner on. So far, so good. Then, I waited. I leaned back against the counter, slightly bending my left knee. My right arm was across my stomach, holding my left, and my leg was bouncing up and down like a rubber ball on steroids. Patience was not my thing. Once the water started to boil, I poured the noodles in. I set the timer on the microwave, and went back to lingering in the kitchen. Daydreaming, I fidgeted with my clothing until a shrill tone woke my conscious. The sound clouded my thinking. What was next? Oh, right—I had to get the strainer out. After retrieving it from the cupboard, I placed it in the sink and pulled two dishrags from the drawer. But wait—what if two was not enough? What if the pot still burned me?

As a solution to my dilemma, I grabbed two extra rags and doubled up on either hand. I latched onto the handle, lifting it up off the stove. It was heavy so I grabbed the side of the pot, dropping one of the dishrags in the process. Luckily, my hand didn't burn. Acting like the amateur I am, I scampered over to the sink, my arms at odd angles as I poured the out the contents of the pot. I then flooded the noodles back into their original container and added the cheese. Voilà! I couldn't believe it! I'd made a cooked dish!

Brimming with excitement, I hurriedly divided the noodles into two bowls. I paraded into the office, my chin held high. "Lunch is ready."

My mother turned her attention to me, the corners of her lips moving upwards. "Oh! You made lunch! I didn't think you actually could do it, from what the doctor said. I'm so proud of you!" I moved towards her, and she wrapped her arms around me.

We ate lunch in the TV room, the door closed to give us the "theater" feel, and watched our favorite sitcom. We attentively scrutinized the dysfunctional family as they tried in desperation to have one night of peace. They failed miserably. Midway through the show, my mother's nostrils began to twitch. "What's that smell?"

"I don't know." I sniffed the air. It smelled of overcooked lasagna.

Mom lifted herself off the love seat and opened the door. Heat burst into the room. I heard something that sounded like snapping, as mom hurried away. A few moments later, a shriek resounded throughout the house.

I ran out into the living room then stopped, a deer staring into headlights when I saw the cause of my mother's outcry. The entire kitchen was alight in flames, creaks and crackles signifying its rapid deterioration. When I was fumbling with the pot. . . I must have. . . one of the rags. . . . The snakes were slithering among my organs, out of control. All I could do was stare.

When my mother finally turned towards me, tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Come on, we have to get out of here." It's strange to hear words that do not want to be uttered come out of a person's mouth. They seem as if something has had to physically push them past closed lips. I hadn't yet registered what she'd said, though I did know the action that we would inevitably have to undertake. Sooner or later, we'd have to cross the threshold into the outside world. No way was I going to let that happen.

I felt a tug at my arm, something pulling me along as I gazed into the roaring fire. When I realized where it was taking me, I jerked back, releasing my arm from its grasp. I ran in the opposite direction, further into the house that would soon be enveloped in flames. My mother chased after me, but I didn't stop until I'd reached a dead end. Her arms gripped what ever part of me they could, tugging at my shirt, fingers, and even hair. I resisted her with all my strength. I was not leaving that house.

We fought like that for many precious minutes while the flames continued to engulf the dining room, the family room, and finally down the hallway towards us. Smoke was all we breathed in, and we were to busy hacking to continue our struggle against one another. Eventually, there was no point. We were trapped in blackness.

Out of the dark came a masked figure that quickly flung my mother and me over both of its shoulders. I dropped my dead weight onto the creature, too weak to tense my muscles. I closed my eyes and didn't open them again until fresh air filled my lungs. Somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, I knew where I was. I knew of all the dangers that could induce my demise, all the painstaking trials this ancient world had to offer. But, at that moment, I didn't care. In the outside, I was now safe. All the snakes evaporated from inside me, leaving with the gray wisps that exited my lungs.

"Honey?" My mom put her hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you come and do some schoolwork?"

I had been staring out the window for an hour, watching raindrops as they painted dark polkadots onto the sidewalk. In the yard, the leaves of towering green cotton balls fidgeted in the wind, chatting to one another like church gossips during fellowship. A thick layer of dust covered the heavens. I rested my arms on the sill, my chin laying atop folded fingers. From behind a quarter inch of glass, nature was beautiful. Beyond my window, it was a wild beast, its aggression sudden and uncontrollable.

Inside the confinement of those familiar brick walls, I was safe. Nothing could hurt me. Out there, in the world, there were insects, rabid dogs, diseases, falling buildings—countless situations that presented lethal danger. In my warmly lit room with plush couches and dark crimson furniture, I had control. I couldn't recall the last time I'd let the unfiltered sunlight rain down on my face; I'd erased the memory from my mind. It was too painful. I used to live my life in the open air, my childish ignorance shielding me from reality. I went to school, church, the soccer field, and even art camp. But then I stopped taking risks. I saw life for what it really was: a dangerous existence, filled with hardships and tests I knew I couldn't pass. The thought of the outdoors caused snakes to creep up spine and make my heart pound, sending me to my bed where I lay blankly gazing up at the ceiling.

"Sure." I sounded calm, though I felt anything but. School was another subject that made the snakes dance along my vertebrae. I could fall off the cliff into the sea of failure at any moment; all it took was a simple memory lapse or misjudgment during a test. My mother taught me daily lessons at home, her horn-rimmed glasses, and quiet, assertive tone suggesting that she'd missed her true calling as an educator. I never failed to procrastinate on my assignments, which always made the anacondas constrict around my heart, squeezing tighter as time went by. No matter how much I resolved to break free and overcome them, they always won.

I stood up, starting towards the office. My mother followed me, her hand resting gently on my back. I paused mid stride. "You know what? I was actually thinking of taking a shower before I do anything. I should probably get out of my pajamas." I tugged at my flannel.

Mom's eyebrows scrunched. "Yeah, I guess you should. Just make sure you get that English assignment done sometime today, all right?"

"Will do." I turned around and headed for the bathroom. When I got there, I immediately took a long look in the mirror. I'd mentally bashed my looks so many times already, it was pointless to think them over again. It was a fact. I was not a supermodel. Nothing more could be said. My appearance was like an appendix; it was without purpose. It didn't dazzle. It didn't repulse. I let out a sigh, covering my face with my hands. My mom's polite nagging had my old slithering nemeses riled up again. I wondered if she'd let the assignment slide that day.

I turned on the water, jumping back when the cold spray reached my skin. Steadily, it got warmer. I threaded my fingers through my hair, turning my face directly towards the flow of the stream. The constant dribble of the water against my forehead helped me to think. What if I never finished my schooling? What if I didn't pass that standardized test at the end of the year? Would they make me go to an actual, tangible school? While I was shampooing, I noticed that my hands had started to shake. Once I was done, both with cleaning myself and rambling off frightening questions, I dried off, threw on my clothes, and began brushing my teeth, the toothbrush trembling as I moved it up and down. While I was scrubbing, I heard my cellphone ring in the other room. I spat toothpaste into the sink and rushed out the door. Caller ID told me it was my dad. "Hey."

"Hi sweetheart. Whatcha up to?"

"Just got out of the shower." He waited for a longer answer. He didn't get one. I'm not one to elaborate.

"All right. I was just calling to check up on you. Do you think you could, you know, try and go for a walk today?"

Oh boy. The snakes were drawing blood from my cheeks. "No, Dad," I snapped. "I'm not feeling up to it. I have a headache." I didn't, but I needed an excuse. He tried to contain his sigh, but I still heard it.

"Okay then. Make sure you rest, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear." I hung up. Talking to my dad always put me into a worse mood.

I made my way into my bedroom and glanced at my digital clock, which read twelve-fifteen. Perfect. It was time for lunch already. I couldn't do the assignment now. "Mom?" I shouted, "I'm hungry." She didn't respond for awhile. What if something had happened to her? I became momentarily frozen.

Finally, after too many seconds for my liking, she responded. "I'm really busy with clients right now, can you make something yourself?" Her voice was distant, an echo from across the house. "There's some mac and cheese in the pantry."

Her request was unusual. I was to chef as monkey was to pilot. Taking swift strides through the house, I approached the office and leaned on the doorframe. My mother was frantically bashing on the keyboard, stacks of paperwork piled high around her computer. "But Mom. I don't—"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "All you have to do is boil some water. Come on. You're fifteen already. You can read directions."

  I squeezed my lips together, waiting for her to come down from her strange emotional upheaval and to her senses. She knew I didn't cook. When she picked up her beeping phone, it was pretty clear that she had no intention of helping me out. I allowed a gulp of air to flow into my lungs. So many things could go wrong when I was cooking. I walked to the kitchen as though I was walking off a pirate's plank, full of scared apprehension, racking my brain for ways to get out of my predicament. I tried to take on a ballerina's poise, calm and collected, hoping that my choice of countenance would somehow affect my mindset. This had been a tip from Dr. Patricia. She was sometimes helpful, though her insightful pointers had as high a success rate as products from infomercials on TV.

 I reached for a pot. I filled it with water. Simple steps were what I focused on, praying I didn't mess the mac and cheese up, like I did everything else. I placed the pot onto the stove. I turned the burner on. So far, so good. Then, I waited. I leaned back against the counter, slightly bending my left knee. My right arm was across my stomach, holding my left, and my leg was bouncing up and down like a rubber ball on steroids. Patience was not my thing. Once the water started to boil, I poured the noodles in. I set the timer on the microwave, and went back to lingering in the kitchen. Daydreaming, I fidgeted with my clothing until a shrill tone woke my conscious. The sound clouded my thinking. What was next? Oh, right—I had to get the strainer out. After retrieving it from the cupboard, I placed it in the sink and pulled two dishrags from the drawer. But wait—what if two was not enough? What if the pot still burned me?

As a solution to my dilemma, I grabbed two extra rags and doubled up on either hand. I latched onto the handle, lifting it up off the stove. It was heavy so I grabbed the side of the pot, dropping one of the dishrags in the process. Luckily, my hand didn't burn. Acting like the amateur I am, I scampered over to the sink, my arms at odd angles as I poured the out the contents of the pot. I then flooded the noodles back into their original container and added the cheese. Voilà! I couldn't believe it! I'd made a cooked dish!

Brimming with excitement, I hurriedly divided the noodles into two bowls. I paraded into the office, my chin held high. "Lunch is ready."

My mother turned her attention to me, the corners of her lips moving upwards. "Oh! You made lunch! I didn't think you actually could do it, from what the doctor said. I'm so proud of you!" I moved towards her, and she wrapped her arms around me.

We ate lunch in the TV room, the door closed to give us the "theater" feel, and watched our favorite sitcom. We attentively scrutinized the dysfunctional family as they tried in desperation to have one night of peace. They failed miserably. Midway through the show, my mother's nostrils began to twitch. "What's that smell?"

"I don't know." I sniffed the air. It smelled of overcooked lasagna.

Mom lifted herself off the love seat and opened the door. Heat burst into the room. I heard something that sounded like snapping, as mom hurried away. A few moments later, a shriek resounded throughout the house.

I ran out into the living room then stopped, a deer staring into headlights when I saw the cause of my mother's outcry. The entire kitchen was alight in flames, creaks and crackles signifying its rapid deterioration. When I was fumbling with the pot. . . I must have. . . one of the rags. . . . The snakes were slithering among my organs, out of control. All I could do was stare.

When my mother finally turned towards me, tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Come on, we have to get out of here." It's strange to hear words that do not want to be uttered come out of a person's mouth. They seem as if something has had to physically push them past closed lips. I hadn't yet registered what she'd said, though I did know the action that we would inevitably have to undertake. Sooner or later, we'd have to cross the threshold into the outside world. No way was I going to let that happen.

I felt a tug at my arm, something pulling me along as I gazed into the roaring fire. When I realized where it was taking me, I jerked back, releasing my arm from its grasp. I ran in the opposite direction, further into the house that would soon be enveloped in flames. My mother chased after me, but I didn't stop until I'd reached a dead end. Her arms gripped what ever part of me they could, tugging at my shirt, fingers, and even hair. I resisted her with all my strength. I was not leaving that house.

We fought like that for many precious minutes while the flames continued to engulf the dining room, the family room, and finally down the hallway towards us. Smoke was all we breathed in, and we were to busy hacking to continue our struggle against one another. Eventually, there was no point. We were trapped in blackness.

Out of the dark came a masked figure that quickly flung my mother and me over both of its shoulders. I dropped my dead weight onto the creature, too weak to tense my muscles. I closed my eyes and didn't open them again until fresh air filled my lungs. Somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, I knew where I was. I knew of all the dangers that could induce my demise, all the painstaking trials this ancient world had to offer. But, at that moment, I didn't care. In the outside, I was now safe. All the snakes evaporated from inside me, leaving with the gray wisps that exited my lungs.

AUTHOR BIO: Madison Koch is a freshman living in Bradenton, Florida. Her work has been published in Writers Haven and is forthcoming in WhiskeyPaper.