Tram Stories: The Tiny Room

The room was small. She’d taken it sight unseen, and moved in right away, that very night.

Small is no exaggeration. There wasn’t even enough room for her to turn around. If she wanted to leave she would have to crawl out backwards. But she wouldn’t be leaving. This was her home now. She would have many, many children here, and the already cramped space would be absolutely bursting with life. The thought of it filled her heart as though it too would burst.

She decided to gnaw on the wall for a bit, eating at the thin tympanic membrane on one side of her room. Like the space in which she resided and her full heart, the membrane—also called the eardrum—was ready to burst, or rupture, or perforate. When it did, she would drown in blood before she could back her way out.

Perhaps I should’ve mentioned that this lady was an earwig, but it doesn’t really make a difference, does it?