Solitary Confinement

“Bill, go to your room.”

I did many things to earn that punishment. A sibling altercation, a neglected chore or even a rare show of disrespect, whatever the reason, punishment came swift and sure.  

“But—”

“Your room. Now.”

I complied, holding my tongue. Even though the injustice rankled, I refused to show any sign that would result in a greater sentence. I didn’t even slam my door.

Once in my room, I shed my façade while I paced and fumed at the unfairness. Why me? My brother and sisters did things that were far worse in my mind. I threw myself down on the bed and felt the heat rise from my face. Not fair. I’ll show her.

I rose, paced to my bookshelf and perused the titles. Each story was an old friend with bonds, tried and true. Any one of them could melt the walls of the room that was both my refuge and my prison. But which book?

American history? An epic of colonial times where the hero used pluck, guile and courage to win against impossible odds? The old West with cowboys and cavalry? World history? Stories of battle and bravery with power and fortune as the reward? Non-fiction? A tale of exploration and discovery, fraught with peril where fame always outweighed risk?

I selected a volume. Tall masts beckoned and I answered their call. Adventure in the South Seas, pirates and sadistic officers. Ah, yes, here was my escape. Damp, stone dungeons or drywall in a suburban home? Ha! Neither could hold me. I threw myself back on the bed and opened the cover.

“Bill? You can come out, now.” Mom’s voice came later and sounded more distant than just the end of the stairs.

“Okay.” I turned another page. “In a minute.”