Dimensions

Chapter three

Quietly, I sit on my bed waiting for my punishment to be over. My brother ate a cookie from the jar and when our father had shouted at us, asking who had eaten without his permission I owned up because I didn't want my five-year-old brother to get told off. Our father had told me off, locking me in my room and that's where I've been for the past four hours. 

Out of boredom, I start to kick my heels against the boxes under my bed. They contain my old toys that my father had locked up a few years back telling me I didn't need them. Now my room sits as dull as always with the blank beige walls and wooden floor. There is a wardrobe in the corner by the foot of my bed with two spare pairs of clothes in them. My pyjamas lay at the foot of my bed, folded neatly so my father won't shout at me. My bedsheets are a plain grey, the most boring colour I've ever seen.

I cross my legs over, ignoring my need to pee. Dad will be here soon to let me out. Then I can go to the bathroom. It won't be long now. He only ever leaves me in here for a few hours at a time.
My eyes drift from my empty room to the window just above my line of sight. I stand on my mattress and reach onto my tip toes to look out onto the front garden. With my little strength, I pull myself onto the thin window ledge and watch the man next door walking his dog up to the end of the road. I've never stroked the dog before but I know from its fluffy coat that it must be the softest thing alive. It's like a brown fluffball which I find myself reaching out towards. But then my hands strike the glass of the window and I pull them back quickly, hoping no one heard me.

My father's car isn't on the driveway yet which means he's still out, probably with my brother on his way back from the park. Dad takes my brother there to see the ducks because he has an unhealthy obsession with them. Sometimes I hear him running along the corridor with his stubbly little legs and quacking with the stuffed duck I know he has.

My little brother is the only thing in my life I love more than myself. When I hear him thumping down the corridor, it brings a smile to my face. Sometimes he'll stop at my door and chat to me about anything he feels the need to talk to me about. Mostly it's about some television program he's been watching or about what our father bought for him as a treat. 

I don't think our father particularly likes me. He never buys me treats from the store and he locks me in my room a lot when I get in his way. He adores my brother, though, and that's who's most important. I'll happily take any punishment if it means he gets to live the life he is.

The car pulls up in the driveway and I roll off the window, bouncing up and down on the bed with a smile on my face. Time to get out of here. Time to go to the bathroom. 

Quickly, I pat down my bed to smooth the sheets I ruffled as I bounced. Then I straighten up my pyjamas and push my wardrobe doors firmly shut. I lower myself carefully to the wooden floor and cross my legs in front of me before sitting up straight and turning my attention to the door. My mum used to sit like this when she said she was praying. She was quite religious but I'm not, not really. I only pray occasionally when I feel the need to.

I hear the key in the lock downstairs twist and then the babble of my brother, running and quacking to himself. They did go to the park then. My father bangs his feet, knocking off the mud his boots must have accumulated on the damp autumn's grass. Then I hear him call for my brother to go watch the television before I hear his steps on the stairs. 

My heart rate rockets skyward and my breathing comes faster. It always does that. Mostly because my father's moods can be unpredictable. He can let me out without further consequence or he can ground me for a week. I hope he's in a good mood. A smile tilts the corner of my lips upwards when I hear him approach my room then it drops as he continues past it.