I can't remember why I was in that closet. Maybe I heard a noise. Perhaps I was looking for something that was buried deep in the abyss of a teenager's room. Or not. I don't recall any light being on.
Swirl, our dog at the time, was right behind me. We named her Swirl because her fur was a swirling of brown, white and black. No one could explain why her colouring was like that, and no one really cared beyond it being something fascinating. Swirl never left me. I guess that must have been a sign she was more than a dog - but dogs are loyal like that, are they not?
My fingers were my eyes that night, as I searched in that closet for what had drawn me into it. I remember touching a dry, warm thing. It wasn't my yellow tub where I had stored all my toys I refused to get rid of. The tub would have been dry - but cold and smooth. This was rough, almost like sandpaper, but more jaded and yet . . .
I never screamed. Swirl had barked. She had never made noise except when danger was near.
The sandpaper had snapped away from my hand. It encased me, taking Swirl along for the ride as well. My only thought before leaving my room was 'I'm going to be smashed into the wall'.
I wasn't. In reality, I had left Alberta. Canada.