Part One: Jenna
I can hear his heavy footsteps even when he isn’t here. That horrifying sound of feet plodding and wood creaking above me. The thought of it is enough to make me run and hide in my corner. There is a slight drag from one of his feet when he walks. I like to imagine that foot is resisting him, fighting his advance. That foot knows better.
My room is dark but not the kind of dark you see when you close your eyes. Twenty-nine strips of light, faint and narrow, bleed through the cracks of the wooden planks over my head and line the cold cement floor in my room. It’s just enough light for me to see everything within these four walls. Although there isn’t much to see, to be honest. I have a discoloured metal cot with a thin mattress, no pillow or sheets, and a small nightstand alongside it. On the nightstand is a child’s lamp. The ceramic base is in the shape of a pink elephant with its trunk lifted high over its head, disappearing under the lavender shade where the tip of its nose holds the usually unlit light bulb. The lavender shade is covered in four different images of cartoon elephants that repeat across the surface. Whoever made this lamp wanted the elephant images to seem random, but I can easily see the pattern.
Every fourth elephant is wearing an old-fashioned hat shaped like an upside-down bowl. He looks directly at me while holding an open umbrella over his head. I still don’t understand why he needs both an umbrella and a hat.
Every third image is a plump elephant dressed in a pink ballerina skirt. She stands on the toe-tips of her right foot while her other foot rests on the inside of her opposite calf. She is graceful, but I get the feeling she is tired of holding the same position.
The next figure is a large mother elephant facing sideways as her infant follows close behind her. His thick trunk is twisted around her thin tail. They will be together forever.
The last image is a lone baby elephant. He (it looks like a boy to me) sits on his bottom with his right hand over his head, holding a string attached to a red balloon. This baby elephant has a wicked smile. However, something is not right with him. Maybe he has been left behind because he is naughty, or perhaps he ran away. Either way, I don’t spend too much time looking at him. I prefer the elephant in the pink ballerina skirt.
On the opposite side of the room from my bed, near the foot of the wooden staircase, is a metal folding chair with a grey plastic seat. I don’t sit on this chair because that is where he sits when he comes to visit. When he isn’t down here, staring at me, I mostly sit on the floor. Mainly in the corner opposite both the mattress and chair. This is the farthest and darkest part of my room, where nobody can see me. Here I am safe.
To pass the time between his visits, I count in my head. I’ve been locked away in this room precisely thirty-one days almost to the hour. I know this because I have an innate sense of timing. Or that’s what my teacher tells me.
“Child, you must have an atomic clock in your brain. You always know exactly what time it is,” my teacher would say and then let out a small laugh.
I smile when she says this. I like it when Teacher notices me. Or noticed me. The thought of not seeing my teacher again makes me sad. I wonder if she even thinks about me anymore. Someone must have told her I was missing. She would worry, but she has a lot of children to worry about. I wasn’t unique except for my ability to know the time so well. So maybe she has already forgotten about me.
The only other piece of furniture in my room is a three-drawer dresser. It’s painted white and has gold and glass knobs for handles. The drawers are full of girls’ clothing meant to be worn by a ten- or eleven-year-old. The top drawer is full of white underpanties. The second drawer is filled with tops. And the bottom drawer is stacked with three kinds of bottoms: trousers, skirts, and summer shorts. I can barely fit into these clothes. But he insists I wear them. I have no choice anyway, as he took my clothes away. He even picks out which ones he wants to see me in at the end of each visit for the next time. As soon as he leaves, I put on the only nightgown I have down here. It’s long and light blue with tiny white daisies all over it. This fits me better than most of the other stuff. I guess it’s pretty, but I can’t help myself from hating it. I hate all these clothes. I think someone else used to wear them. They aren’t entirely worn, but neither are they brand new. I feel like they belonged to someone he knew or someone he wants me to be. I still haven’t quite figured that part out yet.
I think my room is somewhere below his house. I capture glimpses of the area above me when he opens the trapdoor. Slivers of grey cement walls and artificial fluorescent lights make me think I’m in a hole dug into his basement floor. Above me, I can see a wall filled with tools hanging on a pegboard: saws, hammers, an axe, stuff like that. Stuff a dad would have in his basement to fix things around the house. That’s why I think I’m in his basement. That’s all I know about where I am.
Every day he comes down at six in the evening. He turns on the elephant light, first from outside, giving it power, and then inside the room by twisting the little knob sticking out of the elephant’s mouth like a tongue. Then he takes a seat in his chair, facing me. He never says a word. There is a deep sadness in his wet eyes. But I don’t care. I want to kill him. I want to run over and start hitting him until he is unconscious so I can get out of here. But I don’t. And I never say anything. I keep quiet. I learned that early on. Boy, did I. When I ask questions, he stops visiting. So now I don’t say a word. I need the light on for a bit of time, at least.
I forgot there is one other thing down here, a book about a giving tree. Its cover is slightly stained, and the pages are warped like it was damaged in water and fire. Sometimes I flip through the book while he is staring at me. I don’t need to read it anymore. I know the story by heart. I just look at the pictures and let my brain tell me the story. This helps pass the time during his visits.
It’s almost six. I can feel it. He will be here soon. I must get dressed now.
