The Quiet Game

⚠️ Content Warning:

This story contains themes of child captivity, emotional manipulation, and psychological trauma. While there is no graphic violence or explicit content, readers may find the material distressing.

The Quiet Game

The numbers blink at her in blue: 111. That’s the only time they’re allowed to play. Nobody ever says who made the rule, but she knows 111 means play time.

She counts the clicks of the clock. One, two, three… She always stops at eleven. Then she starts again. One, two, three… She doesn’t know why. It just feels right.

She watches the clock from her mat on the floor, knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, rocking to the tick of the clock.

There’s no blanket on her mat—just the slick, squeaky vinyl that smells like rubber when she turns her head. The corners are curled up like leaves, and when she presses them flat, they spring right back, like they’ve learned not to stay where they’re told. The noise it makes when she moves is like balloons rubbing together—loud and fake, the kind of sound that makes you want to hold your breath.

The room smells like old milk and Lysol. The carpet has worn spots, a threadbare trail from the door to the mat. A vent in the ceiling humms, but never blows air. The light from the hall spills in with a hum, flickering sometimes like it’s nervous.

She hears the click of switch and the hallway light slips under the door in a widening triangle, like it always does, and the air hums with the sound of a fan in the next room.

The sound always comes in three parts: the jingle of keys, the click of metal turning, the slow creek of the door.

She rocks faster. She presses her lips together and they curve into a pursed smile as she watches the triangle grow wider.

The toddler tumbles in. Barefoot. Blinking. Her chubby legs waddle a few quick steps, then search for balance. She lands on hands and knees with a soft thump, then freezes.

“Over here,” the girl whispers. Her voice is a thread. “Come on. It’s okay.”

The little one crawls, eyes wide, unsure. She still hasn’t stood up from the fall. She starts to cry.

“Shhh,” the girl says. “They’re still sleeping. You don’t want to wake them up.”

She scoots over and makes room on the thin mat. “You can sit by me. Do you want to play.”

She watches the little one crawl closer, knees slipping on the carpet, eyes glassy and uncertain, clutching a worn stuffed animal. She doesn’t speak. That’s okay. The other one didn’t either.

“You can’t cry,” the girl explains. She doesn’t point to the camera, but she glances at it. The toddler looks at her, blinking.

“Here,” the girl says, reaching out. “Hold my hand. Now pat like this…patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man. Roll yours arms. Roll’em up. Roll em up. Now throw’em…throw’em in the pan.”

They sit like that, hand in hand on the floor.

“Good,” she says, her voice soft. “Are you smiling?”

“Let’s play something else.” the girl says.

The toddler doesn’t answer.

“Now we’re gonna play Family.”

She adjusts her posture, sits taller, smooths her shirt like she’s grown. “I’m the Mommy, and you’re my little girl.”

She points to the stuffed animal in the toddler’s lap. “That’s our baby. His name is just the Baby.”

The toddler hands her the Baby.

The girl leans over and whispers into the toddler’s ear, “Your name is Lila. I get to pick your name because I’m the mommy.”

She waits, watching the little one’s face. “Can you say Lila? Lie Luh.”

The toddler stares.

“It’s okay,” the girl says. “Just remember. That’s your name now.”

She lowers her voice again. “If anybody asks, you say, ‘That’s my mommy.’ Ok?”

The toddler blinks.

“You have to say that I’m your mommy and if you mess up, the bad people will come and take you away.”

She shifts closer and wraps her arm around the toddler’s shoulder. “Let’s play something else. Let’s play the Quiet Game,” she says.

The toddler doesn’t move.

“It’s easy,” the girl continues, voice even. “When I do this,” she puts her hand on the toddler’s shoulder and squeezes, “You just stay still. You don’t make a sound at all. Ok?” She squeezes the toddler’s shoulder and leans in closer. “And smile.”

The toddler’s lip wobbles.

“No,” the girl says quickly. “Don’t cry. You HAVE to play!”

She glances at the door, then up to the corner of the ceiling where nothing is visible, but she stares anyway.

Her hand tightens around the toddler’s shoulder.

“You better not get me trouble.” Her voice cracks. “Smile.” She pulls her lips too wide. “See?” she whispers. “I’m smiling. You smile too.”

The toddler twists away.

The girl’s hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist, fast. “No.”

The toddler flinches.

“I said no,” the girl repeats. Her voice is flat, like she is tired. She lets go and breathes through her nose like grown-ups do when they’re trying not to shout.

“You’re messing up the game,” she says.

The toddler starts to crawl toward the door.

“No,” the girl says again. “You’re going to get in trouble if you keep being bad. You have to play the game I pick because I’m the mommy.” She lunges forward and pulls her back.

“Do you want me to put you in the closet?” the girl asks then softens her voice. “I’m not really gonna put you in there,” She sighs. “It’s just a game.”

The toddler begins to cry in quiet, gulping sobs.

The girl scoots away. “Fine,” she says and turns her back. “They can take you.” She stomps away.

The toddler stops crying. The girl turns, slow and careful, and sees the toddler sitting stiffly where she left her. Big eyes, red cheeks, and silent.

“That’s good,” the girl whispers. “See. That’s better.”

She crawls back over, folding her legs beneath her. “Don’t be scared. You have to smile. Like me,” she smiles and points with her chin toward the upper corner of the room.

“That’s better.” She points again just with her chin. “They’re watching. But if you’re good,” she smiles. “They’ll let me keep you.”