The door opened without a sound.

"Good luck for a change." He thought.

The light which beamed through the opening of the doorway jumpstarted something that laid dormant for a long time. It was tucked away, stuffed into the depths of his psyche, awaiting an opportune moment to come forth into conscious thought. As William closed the quiet door behind him, it wasn't the new hallway that appeared, it was the memory.

Rarely, when the window in his room lit up with the warm glow of a new day's sunrise, the memory of William's mother would flood his mind. She was beautiful. Her smile radiated around her underneath the pristine backdrop of a light-blue sky. Her soft, milk complexion flushed a brilliant red through her cheeks. Dimples had their place, not too far beneath a pair of hazel eyes. Her golden blonde hair danced the same dance as the wind. Sometimes, the clouds, sporadically dotting above them, covered the sun just enough to see her clearly in the memory.

Around a young William, the grass was a beautiful shade of green. He imagined that the very same grass was what glossed the floors of heaven itself. Kids were all around him there running, laughing, and playing. Some of them ran to a bright, yellow school bus and other children jumped over ropes and tossed balls to one another as they laughed. The blur in that memory arrived when a church bell rang loud, beginning the end of his short remembrance of a better life. It ends completely with his mother's smile starting to close and their eyes meeting one another. He often wondered to himself if that was the day of the kidnapping or if it was only a single moment in his life that hung onto him amidst and beyond the chaos.

After a moment, William came back from his doldrums. He'd escaped the room which could have easily been his final resting place. He began to think to himself that he'd gotten awful good at the whole "escape" thing. Either that or just very punctual luck. The stranger gave him a second chance at escaping, and he was going to do everything he could not to waste that gift.

"Be smart, Will... Be. Smart." He whispered to himself.

He knew father would be searching for him soon and he was not taking any chances by standing in the open for too long. He entered the new hallway, not hesitating to begin a quick pace. He had no way of knowing where he was. He had been down so many hallways, rooms, and holes that he had lost track. Not to mention being drugged and dragged to who knows where. Who was to say he was even in the same place? Perhaps they took him somewhere so deep underground that there was no question about his fate.

So many questions with no easy answers. William then decided with some introspection that no good questions had good answers without a little thought. The answers would come eventually - he only needed to move forward. He wondered if anyone had figured out the questions already and if someone had already figured it out, then why was that God-forsaken place still in existence? Wouldn't they have sent help? Would they have gone the way of the flying red and stayed as far away as possible in fear of recapture? Not knowing anything was a greater hell than he bargained for.

William made his way down the dark hallway. An obvious bend to the right was ahead where a spectacular glow invited him. The smell of lantern wax grew more potent as he walked. The hallway was brighter than any other he had ever seen, and his eyes needed a few moments to adjust. As he further explored the well-lit area, he noticed a red, shaggy carpet. It tapered, starting from the middle of the walkway and down to the end where there was a large portrait hanging on the wall.

The carpet, giving him intense flashbacks to his old room, caused William to step to the side of it. He would rather walk on cold concrete than feel the texture of that rug again. It was then that he finally noticed his bare feet exposed to the cold ground. They ached in the arches and itched in the toes from so much walking and running, things he was not used to. The dull aches and pains around his entire body soon became apparent and the rashes left on him from the straps were sore to the touch. When he reached the picture William stopped, leaned against the wall, and studied it.

It was black and white and had twelve middle-aged men huddled together and posing. Some were serious and others had slight grins or grand smiles. Behind the men was an open field laden with piles of dirt, shovels, stacks of stone, and a tent made of tarp. Three children stood in front of the men, each with one of the older men's hands on their shoulders. He looked at the children closer and felt an uneasiness. He wondered what happened to them. When and where was the photo was taken? He leaned in closer to the portrait, staring into the eyes of the middle child, knowing in the back of his mind that he couldn't stay there much longer.

"His eyes..." William bounced back, his eyes widening. The boy's smile, too, was unmistakable. "Father?" The next boy was skinny and had a thick head of hair, tied up in a knot. He held a shovel in his left hand, leaning on it and resting his other hand on the next child. That one had a mean look to him. A look that was only outdone by his sheer size.

"They're building something."

William felt sick and his unhealthy body turned sour. He felt all at once like a defenseless rat trapped in a maze, only a pawn in some sick game. He felt there was no escape for a rodent like himself. He started to question everything. He thought of the girl who loosened the nail for him. He thought of Paris. He thought of the other father. He thought of the broomsticks.

'Those things chased me into that hole. Did they want me to go there?' He continued in thought, 'Or the girl who lived under me that got the nail loose. Was it Father who did that or was it really her? How could she have reached it if it was?'

He wondered about the man who freed him from the chair. Was he friend or foe? Paris? It was overwhelming. He placed his hand on his forehead and closed his eyes. He knew he had to gather his thoughts if he stood any chance of getting out. He had to start with what he knew, which was that he didn't truly know much of anything. But he also knew that he'd never give up on getting out of there, not when the alternative was a tiny cage with nothing but a hole in the wall - perfect for a small rat to wither away in. William looked to the left of the picture at a door that looked in much better shape than all the others before it. He then looked to his right, where another door stood. He had to keep moving.

'There'll be time for questions and answers when I get out of here,' he thought.

He went left and pulled on the door handle. The door seemed stuck and he yanked on it a little harder. With a loud clunk, the door cracked open with a distinct, uninviting aroma. He'd smelled it many times before after his beating. It was dried blood. He wanted nothing to do with the room and yet he swallowed the urge to turn back. He entered and looked around the dark room for a source of light. He thought of going back out and grabbing a lantern but when he turned around, he saw a small white switch attached to the wall by the door. When he flicked it up, nothing happened. He flipped it down and back up again. Nothing. He tried once more, flipping it down and back up again, and to his surprise, the room lit up with a clear, almost blue light. He looked up and turned around, realizing that he must have entered the very place that the stranger had described to him. All around him were tables stacked with complicated equipment and spots of dried blood littered the floor and tabletops. There were seven chairs, each one placed near a table and fitted with the belt straps that had tormented him not too long before.

The floor was a hard, white tile and the walls were turquoise with white trim along the corners, floorboard, and ceiling. There was a glass wall that spanned the entire room, dividing it almost in half. Behind them were small beds, no bigger than a few feet in length, raised to an adult height and propped up at an angle. He walked up to the chairs, examining the equipment on the tables and looking at the dried blood that seemed to have pooled around the bottom of the chairs. Examining the glass divider, he noticed that there was no way to enter from this side, only a door to the right on the other side. Another door was across the room from where he entered. When he tried to open it, it wouldn't budge. He shoved it and pulled on it with all the strength he had, yet the way forward would not open. He turned back around toward the tables and looked for something to defend himself with. Many of the appliances had wires attached or were covered in the old, orange-colored blood. Some of the items looked too dull. He settled on a four-pound hammer, thinking it may help him the most. He picked it up and for a minute he thought of trading it for something lighter. Someone like William would have a hard time using it with such little strength. But he looked at the door, hammer in hand, and had a brilliant idea; he'll bust through it.

He held up the hammer over his head and thrust it down onto the handle. The noise shocked him a bit, but he figured it was too late to turn back. He raised it again, crashing down onto the handle as hard as he could. The handle did not break and yet he would not let up. He came down upon it once more and the handle finally broke free from the door, falling against the white tile and sliding underneath a nearby table with a loud smack. William dropped the hammer immediately and realized right then just how weak he was. His muscles ached and throbbed along with his joints. Each bend of his wrists let out a dull but audible popping sound. He leaned against the wall by the door and looked out across the room, massaging his right arm to ease the aching.

'Just a rat,' he thought.

Not only was he exhausted but the thirst he felt before was beginning to rear its head again. The hunger, of course, remained just as prevalent and it would surely grow stronger. He thought of the food he used to get growing up when Father was not the absolute menace he'd become. He remembered scrambled eggs with cheese. The musty smell of it, even. The texture of it. His stomach yelled at him. 'I agree,' it told him, as he tried to calm it by rubbing it with his hand. The entire room burned with a terrible atmosphere, like something awful had happened there, reminding William of his time learning English with Father. He recalled the bright lamps shining down onto the books which lay spread out and open on the desk. They sat close to one another, hips touching and arms colliding now and then when in reach for materials like paper or number two pencils.

"Aht," William said like a young child would often pronounce a word filled with vowels and followed by consonants. "Aht."

"It's Art," Father said, emphasizing the 'R'.

"Ahht," William said a third time.

"Here, try this one," Father said, pointing with his ring finger at the word on the page, "Towel."

"Tah. Tahwo," said William, trying his best and yet filled with the whimsical and often distracting thoughts that come with being five years old.

"You almost got it, boy," said Father with a grin that raised his cheeks to his eyes, which glimmered softly from the lamp lights.

"Tahhwol."

Father smiled bigger and laughed, patting William on the back. "That's it. Try again, its-"

'Towel,' William thought, 'Art.'

Then, William heard a sudden whisper from behind the door. "Look at me," it said in a sickly voice. He pushed off the wall with his back and turned to look at the door. He knew he heard it; he could have sworn it. He leaned down where the handle had broken off and tried to see through the hole. The handle on the other side did not fall off with the other. He took his finger and tried pushing at it, feeling the metal rods and mechanisms that used to hold it firmly in place. With some amount of struggle, he was able to get it loose until it fell with a thud on the other side. His finger went all the way through, and he gripped it and pulled back on the door. It wouldn't budge.

Something cold and fleshy caressed his finger. He pulled it out quickly and held it in his other hand. He wanted to tremble but wouldn't let himself. He kneeled near the hole and looked through it. He watched for a while, not knowing what he was looking for. He just felt like he should, like something was telling him to - coercing him. He stared into a dimly lit room with a desk sitting right in front of the door against the back wall. Papers were strewn about and a steel chair sat close by. He moved his head a little to the right, allowing for a better view of the left side of the room. Nothing. He then moved his head to the left. He saw a broom leaning against the wall. Next to it was a green bucket and a blue barrel. The broom alone made him uneasy. He felt as though he should never have gone into that room and certainly not the one he was looking into. It felt wrong.

He did not like it there. For some reason, the slight feeling of hope he felt when walking into the room had dissipated and turned into a thin poisonous gas that he felt he needed to run from. The place felt dark. It felt wicked. He stood up, pushing away the aches in his legs and feet, and started for the other door. Halfway through the room he heard it once more, bellowing out to him from a tormented throat.

"Look at me, William!"

His back shivered as goosebumps spread across it. Behind him, he could hear the creaking sound of the door being opened. "Look at me!" It said.