Under My Bed.

When I was little I spent a lot, perhaps a little too much time under my bed. I felt safe under there, as if it was as far away from reality as I could get and a place where no one could ever find me and drag me out again. I'm sure my parents knew where I was but they never pulled me out, but waited for me to appear on my own accord. It was a good place to hide, and only this evening I reminded myself of this.
Trying to win a now lost case, I burst into tears as soon as I was out of the line of sight of others and shut myself in my room preparing for the flood of tears that followed. I had forgotten what crying felt like; how the frames of my glasses filled with a mixture of tears and mascara, make-up dripped off my face like milk from dirty cereal bowls and my lungs forgot how to breathe leaving me gasping for breath.
Finally, it all subsided and I was left with burning eyes, a dripping nose and the taste of salty water in the back of my throat. I turned off the lights leaving only the fairy lights of my Eiffel Tower aglow and sprawled across the carpet in near darkness. After another series of tears and deciding the carpet smelt like the vacuum cleaner, I instinctively crawled into the space under my bed. There wasn't as much room as I remembered and the company of dolls houses had been replaced with a well-travelled suitcase, but it felt exactly how it used to; safe. I felt that if the world came crashing down or if the noise in my head got all too much, I had found my refuge. I will make a note of that.