The Attached

Help Us

Four years ago...

  "Ok. I spy with my little eye.....something that is........blue," I initiated the second round of the game, as Noah and I curled up on the sofa we had towards the left of the room, peering around at every little object with colour for the game I Spy.

"The lanterns," Noah spoke up with no hesitation, as I rolled my eyes towards him in a blow of shock.

"Shit. How'd you know?" I shoved him at my side, as he too rolled his eyes towards me, a hint of a smirk following along.

"Seriously Matt? You always pick the lanterns," he laughed as small lines cornered his mouth, as I scoffed in a type of macho.

"Do I?" I laughed along, trying to think back to the days we play the game, although no memory came to mind when I thought back to what I chose. "Fine, whatever. Your turn."

  "Mhhhhh. Ok. I spy with my little eye.......something that is.....red," Noah said as I automatically shot my head back towards the room surrounding us, in search of some colour brightening up. There was not a whole lot to choose from in this game, as the only colour usual came from our many drawings tapped onto the walls surrounding the bunker. Six years ago when we were first brought here, only a little section was covered in our drawings attached to the concrete walls, however now almost every inch was covered, a few spaces still left. Our sketches first hand only developed pictures of happy things. Like our lives before all this, and things we used to enjoy most. Now however, the drawings—which our skills had improved quite a bit—all possessed figures of only three others; Noah, myself and Michael. They were the escape plans we had come up with over the years, as we had thought of, and carried out each one. None working or course, for Noah and I were still stuck down here.

  "Hmmmm. Is it, that picture? Escape plan number three-hundred and fifty-two? The one with the blood dripping from his head when we tried to shove him against the wall?" I asked while I spotted around for the only red, although many of our escape plan drawings consisted of red for blood. So it was down to a few more I could choose from if that wasn't it.

"Ugh. Yeah it is. Why are you so good at this game?" Noah exhaled as he curled his knees up to him, and I smiled to myself gently.

"I'm not good at this game. You're just bad. But you got the lantern one before," I tried to cheer him up on the bright side, as the two of us peered towards each other in laughter.

"Yeah, because you always pick the lanterns," we both laughed afterwards, our chuckles more deep and pronounce than a few years ago. We were fourteen years old now, the awkward phase of puberty just finishing its last touches, as our voices still cracked from time to time. Not as bad as a year ago, with each sentence having at least one voice crack. For the both of us. Trying to make jokes over them, like most things we tried doing in the bunker. Making jokes out of almost anything, as it somewhat helped us figure out and deal with what was happening around us, and to us as well. Some things couldn't become joking matters though, some too serious to laugh at. But other things, we tried to laugh as much as we could. It did help.

Michael, bringing us more clothes on every visit down along with food, unfortunately, still took somewhat of an interest in us. My stomach still churning as much as on the very first day it occurred, and at those times I tried looking at anything else in the room, focussing on it, concentrating and letting my mind wander off into another world, not thinking about what was really happening. That helped. It helped me deal with it, helped me cope in a way. If there was a such thing as coping with something like that. Michael still made me sick when I looked at him, I don't think that will ever change though. His voice a harsh stab to the gut when I heard him greet "hi boys" when he would visit us daily. My insides tightening up when he would gaze at me, making me feel beyond uncomfortable. His gaze almost burning onto my skin, not wanting to know what was playing in his disturbing mind when he looked at me. Not wanting to know what he thought when he peered at Noah and myself. I had a good idea what he thought, but I still didn't want to know a bit. The thing was, Noah and I were changing a bit. I mean, physically we were changing a lot, but mentally, along with psychologically. We didn't talk about the abuse after when Michael would leave anymore. We used to all the time as kids. Talk about how we felt afterwards, and spent hours crying to each other over it. Over the pain he caused us, physically and mentally. However as we got older, it became and turned almost embarrassing to speak of, not being able to say the words out loud anymore. For no reason at all. We knew what was happening to us of course, we had known for all these years. We knew it was happening to each other, for we were stuck in the same room while it happened. But we were not as comfortable discussing it anymore. Not like we somewhat were as kids. And I knew that was understandable. We were no longer kids. We were now teenagers. Witnessing, along with experiencing things no teenagers should have to be forced into. Nobody should be forced into. It wasn't fair. Why us?