Day 3: Night at the Museum

You hide in the museum bathrooms until the building is closed and everyone is gone. What is the first thing you do? Do you touch everything you possibly can or go exploring in the back rooms? Don’t forget to watch out for security guards!

Completely alone in a sea of natural history, I half expect my evening to turn into a scene from Night at the Museum; every piece of history is a work of art that could come to life at any moment. However, I'm used to being alone--so here I am, exploring a museum in the middle of the night to collect research for my novel. 

I dream of being a writer. Even though I'm only a sophomore in high school, I've always known this is what I want do. I come from a long line of writers; my grandfather started my city's local newspaper, and both of my parents are novelists. At least I think they are. They both left me with my grandparents when I was really young to travel the world for research. They explore Greece; I explore a museum. So be it. 

As I walk through every important scene in history clutching my notebook, I hear footsteps. I knew there had to be a security guard in here somewhere, but by the time I come to realize what I'm hearing, it's too late. The clicking sound grows louder and louder behind me. Without turning around, I begin sprinting down the tile pathways, weaving in and out of marble busts and paintings. My dollar store sandals squeak as I turn each bend, and soon I am in the clear.

I end up in the dinosaur room. Velociraptors and triceratops tower over me, making me feel like I'm in Jurassic Park. I become mesmerized by these animals that were so powerful, yet failed to survive. Is this what will happen to humans? I jot down notes until my hand begins to cramp, but by that point I have an idea for a new story and I don't want to stop. I take a seat against the glass wall of a display and write. And write. And write.

I immerse myself in my writing, so much so that when I hear a booming voice yell, "Who is there?" I don't fully comprehend it until I see a tall shadow looming behind me in the entryway of the room.

"Lizzy?" Shit. It's security, I think to myself as I turn and see a familiar face. But wait, how does he know my name? The only person who ever called me Lizzy is... 
  
"Dad?"

Prompt; Writer's Digest