THE DAY I MOVED BACK UPSTAIRS
I never really gave much thought that it was far easier to keep my bedroom clean since I had moved to the basement.
Nothing had really changed.
Mom had always declared that Thursday’s were cleaning days.
I cleaned for five minutes… maybe as much as ten on a good day… and then everything else was shoved under the bed.
An effective strategy since I was four.
Every Christmas vacation, I would lock my door and rummage through the forgotten wastelands and retrieve missing socks, my favorite boxers, a sweater two that no longer fit me.
Life was good.
I was allowed to move to the downstairs bedroom, beside of the family room, when I turned ten. It was a glorious day!
Better than the movie Home Alone… From 10 pm- everyone else was in bed. I even had my own outside door!
I think it was my thirteenth birthday that I remembered that I had never taken the time to remove the things under the bed since moving in.
Three years of refuse. I was not looking forward to this vacation.
As I maneuvered the mattress to lay it upright against the headboard, I heard a scurrying. Mom always did say I had a vivid imagination. Then I aligned the box spring upright against the mattress….
There was almost nothing under my bed. A few things were lining the surroundings, but the tiled floor under my bed was empty… except for this immense hole in the concrete flooring.
I moved back to the guest room upstairs that evening.
Written for Sunday Photo Fictioneers. Requirements: Using the photo prompt, create a flash fiction story of about 200 words.