Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 3 - Trapped [MH]

SCREAM: CAMP WATTPAD - TASK THREE

If there was ever an undeniable truth, it was that Mickey Haverin's most well-constructed thoughts came about while situated in an extended period of isolation, typically accompanied by a fairly large pack of something sweet and/or salty. And if there was ever an undeniable truth, it was the well-constructed thought that came about as he sat there upon the closed lid of a toilet, closed up in one of the community bathroom's stalls, one hand digging into a bag of potato chips resting on his lap and the other scrolling aimlessly through the contents of his phone.

This is the most pathetic thing I've ever done in my short and semi-miserable existence.

To anyone else, that might've been a stretch - surely he'd had other moments, like having to dive into the trash for something Momma Haverin'd foolishly tossed aside, or getting caught under a bicycle after crashing at the ripe age of seven and a half (still on training wheels, no less). But those anybodies weren't there to see just how mucky the bathroom tiles were, or how the already scarce lighting barely made it over the stall door, or how a dead moth was being scourged of its own carcass by spiders under the next toilet over.

Morbid? Yes. Frankly, he'd seen worse.

Distraction served itself in the form of another chip in his mouth, another weared crunch filling the silence. His thumb skimmed over the surface of his phone as he tried, yet again, to refresh the feed of a social media. Bluelight burned his eyes; the refresh failed, and he swallowed, exiting the app and tapping at the little text bubble in the corner. There, he took to typing vicariously with one hand while holding steadfast to his bag. No expense was spared on editing before "send" got slammed.

To: Momma

u done with your girl's night? because like,,,i'm ready to come home now and dont u dare leave me on read

As expected, the message refused to deliver, but that didn't faze Mick none, no, he just kept on tapping and scrolling, knowing full well nothing would load and nothing would send and nothing would work except the clock and the flashlight feature and his ingrained sense of existential dread.

So wrapped up in this vain endeavor was he that no footsteps were heard when they came. A steady knock on the wooden door left Mick flinching back, a chip breaking itself on the floor and a small, panicked screech spreading itself into the open air. "I, uh, I'm takin' a good one! Ocupado!" Literally, there are like five other open stalls.

From the other side, a warm, familiar voice broke out, echoing against the sweaty walls. "You're taking a good one, huh? With snacks?" It wasn't anything condescending or rude - always a touch of slight amusement from this kid.

Crumby fists crumpled the thin aluminum, and Mick's face fell from one of instantaneous terror to a plain of flatness. He dead-panned at the grains of the door. "Tyler. Listen, honey. My battery is running low and so is my patience. So you're gonna leave me to my business, and we can pretend this never happened."

Rather than listen - which, hm, wasn't unexpected - the boy let his knees strike the tile and ducked down so that his head was poking up from under the door. Mick screeched again and raised one foot into the air. He would kick him. He didn't even care, he didn't even care. "Get! What if my dick was out?"

"Oh, c'mon." Down under, Tyler merely rolled his eyes and crawled his way forward, spine rattling the door on its hinges until he was up and brushing the moisture from his legs. "You and I both know that if that were the case neither of us would mind." He swayed a moment, a bit winded, before pointing at the bag in Mick's hands. "How'd you get those?"