Ben C. O. Grimm

The only time I can see anything down here is when the sun shines exceptionally bright. Out there. Out there where I can't go anymore. The iron grid, way over my head, is clogged with mud and dirt. I tried to reach it with various objects within my reach, but it's just too damn high. I'm afraid to wander around too much down here. There are rats. I can hear them. On a clear day, I can barely see the shine of their oily furs. They won't come near me, and I return the compliment. I think they disapprove of the smell of fear that surrounds me. Sometimes I hear sounds above me. Footsteps, the occasional scream, the slamming of doors. It's been two whole days since she gave me food and water. The rats are the only beneficiaries. I can hardly eat. My jaw still hurts. My hands are scathed. The skin burns and aches at the slightest touch. I can hear the rats eating away at the dry loaf of bread. I keep quiet. I don't want to alarm them and cause them to feel attacked or cornered. Let them eat it. I wonder how long the power cell in my watch will last. I'm afraid to lose track of time. There's just not enough sun to follow the pattern of day and night. My biological clock has always been way off. My periods are irregular. I can sleep for four hours and stay awake for another forty-eight. When I woke up in darkness, I didn't know if it was evening or night without consulting my watch. Now I wake up in darkness every time. I press the small button and read the digital display. Three in the afternoon. Saturday. Useless information really, but the only connection to the world outside. I picture the people outside, shopping, enjoying the weekend off. People fishing in the country, girls picking clothes in boutiques, to show them off next Monday, in school or at work. I would like to have some clean clothes. I don't need the food. Just throw me a pair of clean jeans and a fresh shirt. Underwear. A pair of socks. Anything clean. Tampons. I've given up the idea of returning to the surface by my own strenth. There's no way I can remove the iron grid. Banging the door is useless. The wood is thick and massive. And there's a second door just like that at the top of the stairs behind the first door. No one can hear me. Only the rats. And they don't like the screams. I can tell by the way they run off into the far corners of the basement. The sound mixes with the echo of my pleading. My own voice frightens me. The screaming makes my ears ring. Every sound reduces the space I'm in. I know I scream when I'm dreaming. The echoes wake me up, the images of the dream dying out on my retina. I can see the final scene, I can feel the blows and hear the curses. I feel my head bouncing off the steps, my hands making contact with the rough concrete. I wipe my lips and taste the dry blood. She seems to know when I'm asleep. Maybe she listens at the door. Maybe she can hear me talk in my sleep. Sometimes the sound of the closing door wakes me up. I can smell the bread. I can hear the rats. They can smell it too. At first I ran towards the food, but the smell of urin and faeces has robbed me of my appetite. I tried breathing through the mouth, but that causes too much thirst. I'm sure glad it's not cold down here. When she takes a shower, the sewer pipes carry the warm water. I can hear how the plastic pipes expand and shrink slightly, causing a ticking sound. I can't help looking at the time again. Four. It's been thirteen days now. One more day, and she will let me out. I read the letter he sent to her. She left it on the dresser. He wrote to her he would spend two whole weeks with her. Then he would go back to New York and settle things. Maybe this has been the last time in the basement. I wonder if she told him about me this time. Why is she so afraid of admitting that she has a stepdaughter? Who is this man who signs with "Love, Woody" anyway?

© Ben C. O. Grimm