In the Attic

In the Attic

I sit alone in the corner of my small space reading the last page of Florence Nightingale by candle light. Voices and music float up through the wrought iron vents. Putting my book down, I crawl to the nearest vent and peer through. Laughing, chuckling, clanking, and piano keys dance their way through the holes. A glimpse of yellow satin crawls up the stairs before footsteps beat up to the door.

The lock clinks, door creaking open. She taps her way in and across the floor. Stuffing sheets into the vents, She deafens me. Tap, tap, tap, to the door; more creaking, clinking, beating.

Enough muffles bleed through the sheets I’m no longer alone. I move from the corner to the middle of the room, draped in a hazy glow. A spot light of white surrounds me, and I look up and out the small paned window into the sparkling black sky. My dress glows bright white, knees to my chin. My fingers slice the flame sitting next to me.

The muffles grow louder, I look behind me at the sheets, crawl over to them, and pull them from a corner of the vent. She stands right below, talking, smiling, sipping, enticing. She looks up, and I move the sheet back into place. Beating, clinking, creaking, tapping, slapping, stinging. I put my fingers to my cheek. She rips my dress from me and cuts my corset strings, putting me to face the corner and locks the bars around me. Sharp, pointed, they sting, dripping, old wounds becoming new. Tapping, creaking, clinking, beating. Immobile, aching, running warmth, putrid puddle, my punishment.

Golden beams fall across the room, heat on my back, the stinging worsens. Beating, clinking, creaking, and tapping. They come in, unlocking the bars. Stinging, bubbling, wiping, covering. A new corset, white. A new dress, plain blue, cotton. A new book, and food. The puddle cleaned and gone, stench subsiding.

Tapping, creaking, clinking, beating.

I look at my oatmeal, sighing, and eat below the window; blinking back purple dots. My bowl, now empty, sits on the tray. I’m jealous it gets to leave. New book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, inside it, a note dated December Twenty-fifth, 1910. Her handwriting light, almost happy.

Dear Adelaide,

I give you this book for your birthday along with half my monthly earnings. Happy sixteenth birthday, and Merry Christmas.

Deepest love,

Agnes