Things have gotten harder.

I have no idea how long I’ve been in here. Alone, in the dark. I’m so worried about her. It’s so quiet.

* * * *

I don’t know how long it’s been since she left. A day? Two? Could be more, I suppose, I really have no way of knowing. I mostly kept track of time through her, following her daily routines, listening to her talk about current events. I almost never left the room, but that was fine, I didn’t feel the need to go anywhere. Everything I need is in this room. She paints vivid pictures of the outside world for me with her words. She tells me her thoughts, feelings, ideas, and plans. She used to bring me into other parts of the house, when no one else was home, and she even took me to the park a few times. That was a long time ago though… Still, I understand why she’s been afraid to give me more freedom. Things have gotten harder.

Truly, I’m content with our lives together. She always seemed happy enough, I felt safe, and I thought she did too.

I know it’s not always the two of us in the house, of course. Her brother lives here too. I always know when he’s home; his entire existence is noise. His footsteps are so heavy compared to hers, he likes to watch TV with lots of explosions and yelling, and even when she joins him in another part of the house, I can hear his voice through the walls. Never hers, though.

Sometimes his friends come over. They’re all loud, and they laugh a lot. I hear them talking about someone else--a wife? But I don’t think she comes to the house. I would have heard her, I think. Maybe they meant a girlfriend. She doesn’t live here.

I don’t like it when he’s around. For one thing, she always seems so much… smaller, like she doesn’t want to take up space. Even when we’re alone in our room, she seems contained, like she’s wrapped in a thick blanket. She doesn’t talk much at all when he’s in the house. When he leaves, she takes a breath and the blanket falls away, and I can see her again. I don’t think anyone should be able to make another person so small, especially not her.

She writes a lot when he’s around. I don’t know what she’s writing, but it seems important because she concentrates so hard. Sometimes it seems like she’s crying, even though I don’t hear anything. Sometimes she throws her pen across the room like she’s mad, which is a little scary. I wish she would tell me what she’s writing about, especially when she’s so upset, but I know she won’t talk when her brother is in the house. I don’t think she really wants to talk about it--whatever it is--at all. I’m glad she can write down her feelings, at least.

Of course, he can’t know about me. We can’t take any chances when he’s in the house, so even though he almost never comes to our door, she helps me hide. Sometimes she hides with me, especially when she’s writing. I don’t have to hide when it’s time for her to sleep though--she brings me under the covers and I feel so safe. I never really know exactly when it’s time to sleep because the window doesn’t seem to let in any light; I just wait for her to start her bedtime routine and then I know. It seems pretty regular, although I guess I wouldn’t know for sure.

A few days ago, she came running into our room. I’ve never seen her like that. She was holding a small piece of paper, waving it around like a flag. She didn’t say a word at first, I guess her brother was home. She jumped, and danced, and spun in circles, all so quietly. I heard the front door slam. She stood very still for a few seconds. Then a sound came out of her that I had never heard, in all our time together. I don’t even know how to describe it, but I could tell she was happy, even though she was also crying. She still didn’t speak, just took a few deep breaths, like she would only let herself be loud that one time.

I was confused. I had no idea what a “lottery” was, or why she kept repeating numbers over and over again. I thought I recognized her birthday. She grabbed me, held me up, and twirled; I hoped she would do it again, but instead we fell on the bed, she hugged me, and whispered: “Twenty-thousand dollars. Do you know what this means?”

Not really, to be honest. I know about money, but I’ve never bought anything. Was it a lot? She kept whispering, telling me about bus tickets, apartments, names--of places? One sounded familiar, “Nashville.” That was on a postcard on her wall, I recalled. She talked about a friend I had never heard of. Actually, I didn’t know she had friends. Only her brother’s friends came to the house. Other names, then, some I’d heard before in stories, maybe from her childhood. She talked, and talked, and as she talked, her words became more organized. I understood then that this pattern of speech, these words she was stringing together: these were called “plans.”

The front door slammed again. She dove out of bed and I was hidden again. Pounding on her door--that almost never happened. She opened it, and I heard her brother’s voice. The neighbor heard something, called him on his cell. A sceam? She blushed. A mouse, she explained. Ran right across her foot before disappearing. Her brother was angry, yelling about staying quiet in the house, then stomping away. Her door closed. She began writing.

* * * *

It’s still so dark. How much time has passed? She ran out of the room so quickly, that last time. I thought I had heard the front door slam when she left, but that couldn’t be right. She almost never went out.

Her brother is yelling again. Is he on the phone? I think he’s talking about her. He sounds angry.

A new sound. A doorbell? I didn’t know we had a doorbell. I hear the front door open, her brother is speaking to someone. He’s not yelling. That’s a first. Footsteps coming towards our room, pieces of a confusing conversation. The brother is married? His wife is missing? I thought he had a girlfriend. Our door opens, lights turn on. The people are in the room, so is her brother. He’s yelling again, demanding that they find her. They’re moving around the room. Looking for “evidence” of where she might have gone. Please let them go away. I know she wouldn’t want them to find me. She kept me hidden for so long. Do they realize his sister is missing? Are they looking for the right person?

A hand grabs me, drags me out. I wish I could struggle. I wish I could speak. The face looking at me is concerned. “What’s this?” I see the brother, for once he’s quiet. He’s never been so quiet. He didn’t know about me. He reaches out a hand, thanks the “officer” for finding me, says I belong to him, missing for so long, thought he had searched everywhere. I wish I could tell them the truth, that he’s never seen me before. Why is he lying?

“Mr. DiMartino, this notebook was inside a tear in the mattress, in this bedroom. On the inside cover is the name ‘Alli DiMartino.’ Isn’t that your wife’s name?"

...

“This appears to be a notebook that your wife kept as a diary. Wouldn’t you agree?”

...

Alli. They know her name. The brother is so pale. Pages are turning.

Locked up for years. Sister, wife. Harm. Writing to keep from speaking. Escape.

I didn’t know I kept all these secrets. She never told me.

Except, she did.