The dry walls closed in as my eyes focused on my spitting image launched by the reflection of the mirror. Cracks in the glass were marked by my rage. These marks created surreal diamonds in my vision; although, taking a step back I could only see the shattered cracks and wounds in this victim.
Reflecting the whole color spectrum, sunlight finds its way through the small windows and only onto an antique mirror. No ray of sunshine strikes on my pale skin. The blue in my eyes recognize the rainbows scattered throughout the glass, but my mind races as I try to comprehend the meaning of this. Color shines through even with the abhorrence. Why is there color in this monochromatic room? Color is an illusion of light; it is nonexistent. Therefore, rainbows are black and white. What is real in this world?
Quickly, Black fades away. Illuminating the darkness, my vision blurs. I squint. It is rare for me to perceive such brightness. Arms wrap around my forehead, and I drag myself into a corner, hurled up in a ball. I hear the screams of a presence entering this dungeon, but no face can be noticeable...anymore. Sadness sweeps my surroundings. Being alone only causes a world of misery.
I feel the slightest wisp of air dawn upon my thin, blonde hair, and images flourish in my mind. With my eyes closed, I envision an open meadow with birds singing and flowers in bloom. I have never felt so free. I manage to make a smile even though I am only daydreaming. The sound of piano plays through the breeze as I open my eyes, but the piano hidden in the corner is stagnant. No tune. No pitch. Trying to tolerate the light pushing through the dry wall, I still know this locked basement will always be filled with animosity.
Hungry and parched, I can barely stand up anymore. Dead mice lay where I rest. The disgust in my face is for the shock of how unreal it was for me to have eaten them. I could have famished, but even with my sadness hope will never vanish. With my stomach aching, I finally stand up. My toes sneak through the floor, floating like a ballerina. Crawling spiders, which are hastily on the move to return to their deep shadows, engulf the basement. I pass the shattered mirror, and my slim body is barely noticeable in the image. My pink dress drags across the cold, cement ground. The thin tulle picks up dust and spiders. They will eventually make a web to live in my delicate fabric. I don't mind though. My focus is only on escaping this lonesome dungeon without screams ringing in my ears.
As I walk between the cold walls, I grasp my scuffed up hands on the poles of the metal door. What is outside these walls? Tears drop on the other side- the side I haven't been on in a year.
On this side of the basement, a blank room stares me in the face saying, "There is nothing to live for." Even though that voice is only in my head, sometimes I believe it; I have barely a memory of feeling the fresh air whirl around me. I have forgotten. Every day I wonder what the outside world is like.
Life would be full of meaning if there were color. Illusions of light do not replace the wonders here. I yearn to see a real yellow sun and stand on purple mountains. Running through green trees and bath in blue waters would be liberating. Adventures could set me free.
As of now, no one knows where I am or who I am; neither do I. As a matter of fact, I don't even know my own name. Perhaps I'm senseless, but being confined in this small area causes my psychoticism. I never gave myself a name either. What's the point anyway when I have no one to talk to but myself?
My parents died fifteen years ago, when I was only two and a half. It was a blur, but I was told it was because of a car accident. I immediately was sent to live with my aunt and uncle, but he had a heart attack a few years later. When I was eight years old, I should have known my own name, but my uncle only called me "Kid" or "You." My uncle didn't care I even existed. He never made me feel welcomed, for I never spoke unless I was spoken to. I always acted like a servant for him: sweeping, cooking, gardening, doing laundry, and whatever he asked. If I didn't do what he had demanded, bad would come out of it; beaten, scarred, bruised, and wounded. I would always hide. My emotions would be out of control. I didn't know what to do with my life. Depression isn't a typical word that describes a young child.
Having my own time for play was only at night. My doll would comfort me when I was restless. As silly as it sounds, she was the only one I loved. That's why I named her Cara, meaning beloved.
As well as my uncle, I could not love my Aunt either. She was always away from the house. I never knew where she would go. At night she would tuck me in and kiss me on the cheek, but her kiss was meaningless to me. Besides seeing her at night, we never bonded when I was a young girl. My aunt always seemed as if she was in a rush to be places, but it probably wasn't anything important. After a long day she would come home with a new color in her hair, her long nails would be manicured, and the smell of cigarettes would overwhelm me. Her red lipstick made her uptight and unapproachable too. I do not like red lipstick because it reminded me of her. It always frustrated me whenever she put it on her lips. Whenever she spoke, her bright lips would frown as if she was in disgust. Without parents, loneliness was a part of my bloodstream, even though I somewhat had guardians. Months after my uncle died, however, my aunt decided to stop coming home.
Resting by the cage door, I hug Cara. I remember carrying her in my arms when I looked for my aunt that next morning. Taking a peek outside, her Chevelle wasn't in the driveway. Her clothes were out of her closet in her bedroom as well. And so, I checked the basement.
Under a Persian rug in the living room, a small hatch allowed me to step through. Slowly I crept. Basements were not for little girls to be sneaking in.
My toes went down the narrow stairs, one by one. Each time my foot rested on the old wood, noises screeched. Right foot...left foot...right foot...left foot and repeat. Finally, I reached the bottom of the very last step. I whispered her name three times, "Aunt Marian? Where are you?" No answer was given. "Auntie Marian?" On the third time, the basement hatch slammed shut. Could it have been the wind?
There is not a handle for me to be let out. I squeeze Cara so tightly in fear. I have never been in the basement until that day. I quickly ran into the guest bedroom as fast as I could once the hatch shut. I turned on the lamp by the bed and saw the room for the first time. Aunt Marian wasn't in there, but some other clothes of hers were. I rummaged through her closet and noticed a pretty tulle dress.
To escape my distress, I decided to try on a few dresses. While slipping on the pink dress, I realized my chest had quite a few inches for me to grow. Whatever size it was, I thought it was beautiful. I then twirled my way out from fear of abandonment.
The basement today looks as if no one had lived here. Mold, rust, and leaks mark its age. It has enough rooms to be a house in itself, for it is only missing a front door. There is a kitchen, a living room, a guest bedroom, a laundry room, and a bathroom. Not to mention this dungeon I am imprisoned in. It is my own fault that I am in here though. Once eight years passed since she left, and I was sixteen, I became stuck in this gloomy room...always hearing voices.
It all started when I heard a particular noise. It was not a familiar noise; the sound was of a person. I drew closer to it- bad idea. On this frightful day, whispers roared into my ears the closer I came to the bedroom. Filling my brain with so much pressure, I was losing my balance. My hips unintentionally veered left, and my knees nearly collapsed. My clawing hands gripped the side. I held onto walls trying to keep two feet on the ground, but it was useless. Needles protruding from the walls stabbed my boney fingers while trying to stand. The metal point slunk deeper in my frozen veins. All the way through the skin, they ripped on my hands. Feeling the crunch of my tense nerves, I screamed. A river of red flowed along my forearm. I couldn't comfort myself in my own arms anymore. Staring at my palms, pieces of thread have been latched onto the many needles. The ends of each string created a path following towards my aunt's clothing, which were oddly hung from the ceiling across the doorway with rips and tears. Once lovely, the dresses now had bloody slashes, which were marked upon them very ghastly.
As the pale skin of my filthy, soiled hands were shredding to a gushing crux, I squinted and noticed the trail of strings. It began to mysteriously all sew together forming a white dress. Second after second, the sewing grew faster and eventually a dusty, black shadow protruded from the dress. Dark eyes formed and it stood up, staring right at me with an intensive glare.
The headache was coming on so strong where everything looked dusky. I bled. I fell. I choked. Gusts of wind from the shadowy phantom rapidly slithered around my neck and I was forcefully pushing for air to get to my small lungs. Of what could have been my last breath, the presence was just inches away from me. Suddenly my eyes popped open, and the blur faded.
The ghost's eyes were completely black. Even though she had no pupils, somehow I felt as if our eyes locked. Black molten dripped from her blank stares to my left cheek. The goop ran down into my mouth, and I tasted pure demise; it was a toxic poison.
Her wide, fanged mouth was right up next to mine, haunting me by her screaming whispers. As she exhaled out that blaring voice, black dust went through my nose. I only got one gasp of air before I couldn't breathe again, and my mouth rumbled from the tightening of my neck. I thought I was about to be eaten alive by her grasp.
She finally let go of me, but her silhouette was still facing my direction. Making sense of her words was impossible, as if it was not English; however, as afraid as I was, her high-pitched tone of voice did not seem as if she was there to slaughter me, but rather to warn me.
"Leave." I recognized that word at least. But what did she mean by that? Why does she want me to leave? At the time I hadn't questioned her, for I was too feared, but today I realize that either she does not want me here, or she is looking out for my own good. How foolish of me it is to think she wants the best for me. But no matter what I can't just leave. How will I anyway?
I stood up once I had the courage to. My footsteps were still off-balance, but I managed to rush behind the armoire of the living room once she finally disappeared. Hide and seek was the game I was best at. The adrenaline made me light headed and I couldn't think straight. Backing into another wall, I fell to the ground. I became weak. Lying there was all I could do. And finally, everything went black.
Maybe I was out for twenty minutes. Once I woke up, the whispers were back, and this time I understood her when she said, "Don't come out, don't come out wherever you are." Turning around, needles started poking through the walls again. I couldn't stay hidden there.
As I frantically turned around to try and find another escape route, my left hand touched the coldness of a metal bar, which I had not previously known about. Apparently, behind me was another room, which I have never seen. With the best I could, I slid my body into that room and closed the cage door. My body rocked back and forth and I was in a terrified shock.
She never came through to this room, fortunately, but I never found a key to get out. That is when it happened. I became trapped.