The Girl in the Basement

Small drops of water hit the pages of the book in my lap. Choosing to again ignore them, I continued rereading the same paragraph I had been working on for the last hour. Continuously I found myself brushing my long golden hair back behind my shoulders. The bare lightbulb swung ever so slightly on its string above me, causing the dark shadows in the basement to continually change.

I did not move from my seat on the mattress when I heard the door creak open. If I moved or spoke, I knew Father would be angry. I quietly counted the steady steps as he descended. One, two, three… thirteen. A tray was placed at my feet. A ham sandwich, some sort of mushy vegetable, a banana, and a glass of milk. He left as quickly as he had come, and I again counted his steps before touching my lunch.

My feet grew tired from standing tip-toed at the window for so long, my fingers gripping the dusty windowsill. The only object I was capable of moving and that could hold my weight was a short wooden chair that I dragged to the small square window every afternoon when the sun was at its highest. I could never see much other than grass and blue sky, but it was more color than I would ever see in my home. If I stood just right, and the wind blew just the right way, I might catch a glimpse of the flowers against the outside of the house. A spider might dash over my fingers from time to time, but I would remain still, staring at the beauty before me.

Father’s steps above me were loud and often sent dust flying down on top of me, coating my hair and clothes. I had learned over the years that wearing the large brimmed hat I had found among the boxes would keep the dust away from my eyes and nose. Sometimes, just to entertain myself, I would imagine that I was the women that used to wear the hat: relaxing in the backyard with a glass of lemonade, people surrounding me, soaking up the sun in a comfortable lounge chair. Once I found a photo of a young woman wearing the hat. She was young with long blonde hair, and her smile captivated me. Once I started paying attention, she started popping up more often among Father’s belongings.

The door swung open, and Father carried down a bin of water, a bar of soap, and a sponge. I was allowed to wash about once a week if I was lucky. The water was rarely warm, but I embraced the opportunity to wash my long, tangled hair. I could spend an entire day trying to brush it thoroughly, but I usually just tried to settle for a quick run through of the fingers. Long ago I had learned that it was not worth it, and after half a day of brushing, arms will inevitably tire. Afterwards I would spend an hour trying to braid it, so that the following week it could hopefully stay out of my way.

Years ago, when I was old enough to understand that I was not allowed to leave, I had begun to search for a way to cut my hair. I had yet to find one. Once I asked Father if he could help me cut it. He didn’t say a word, but I knew he was furious by the way he raised his hand at me. Before I could brace myself, the cold hard floor was hitting me in the face. I laid there on the floor, terrified to move, until I counted his stomps up all thirteen wooden stairs and slam the door. I sat up slowly and felt my face. No blood. I would be fine. Ten minutes later the basement door opened, and Father flung down an ice pack. I curled up on my mattress with the icepack on my stinging cheek.

A rustling sound near my head woke me up. I held my breath, hoping for a mouse and not a rat. Feeling the tugging at my hair, tears formed in my eyes. Rodents were not uncommon in the basement, but I had never gotten used to them and probably never would. The last time I complained about rodents to Father, he set out traps. However, they never got the chance to catch a mouse or rat because one caught my toe first. Father quickly removed them, and I was left with disgusting creatures and a limp to deal with. I tried my best to go back to sleep, knowing there was nothing I could do about the rodent in the dark. Hopefully in the morning it would be gone, and I would not find it nested in my hair.

Several times a week a newspaper was tossed down the stairs. I always looked forward to those days. I would smell the printed paper and slowly roll off the rubber band, adding it to my collection. I had a ball of hundreds of rubber bands, all different colors. I would flip through the news. I loved the obituaries: I would read them and feel like I met someone. At one point I had cleaned out a box of books and starting collecting the newspapers in there.

I had not seen Father in two days. Sometimes he would leave for longer periods of time, but he would always leave sufficient food and water behind and let me know of his absence. The only times he denied me a meal was if I misbehaved, which was rare, and it was only ever one meal at a time. I curled into a ball on my thin mattress and listened to my stomach growl. I tried to focus on anything besides my pains: the most recent book I had acquired, last week’s newspapers, or the beautiful woman of the photo albums.

Father woke me up when he finally returned; his tired face appeared almost worried. He had been gone several days, but I had lost count, sleeping on and off the entire time. He sat down with me on my mattress and made sure I ate the food he had brought. He left me with a glass of water and a quick apology, but no explanation. I watched him ascend the stairs slowly, gripping the handrail as he went.

I stood staring at the window. There was a man in the yard. Not Father. He looked much younger than Father. I watched him push a lawn mower back and forth on the yard. Usually Father did the mowing. The man disappeared from sight and I inched up as close as I could to the window. The roar of the mower got continually louder until he was right in front of my face. Surprised, I fell off the chair and landed hard on my wrist.

I went upstairs for the first time that I could remember. Father told me not to speak. He was having a doctor come to look at my arm soon, but I had to look presentable first. We walked through a hallway past many rooms and stopped in a small bathroom. Father turned on the shower and instructed me to bathe. He pointed out a neat stack of clean clothes on the counter. He exited, and I heard the door lock from the outside. Unable to use my left arm, I carefully undressed and got into the shower. The water was warm, and I found myself fascinated by the water pressure and fragrant soaps.

Sitting with my back to Father, I felt the soft tug of him combing through my hair. I searched my memories, wondering if he had ever done it before, but I came up empty-handed. Still, the feeling felt familiar and soothed me. I soaked up my surroundings; the upstairs was clean and simple, bare furnishings, no decorations. His coat was tossed on the floor, the television was on but muted, and a sweating glass of caramel-colored liquid sat on the end table next to me. He tightly braided my hair, and I smiled to myself, knowing that that braid was capable of withstanding much more than the typical ones I managed.

When the doorbell rang, Father left me alone briefly on the living room couch. Out of curiosity, I tasted the drink beside me and immediately spit it back out into the glass and set it down. From the other room, I heard him tell the man that I was mute and terrified of human interactions. I did as Father asked and spoke no words, instead, I stared at the doctor and focused on all of the differences between him and Father. They had to be similar in age, but Father appeared older. The doctor stood straight and tall, clean shaven, freshly washed. Father slouched, receding hairline starting to grey with his beard coming in just as grey and patchy. The doctor told Father that my wrist was sprained and gave me a brace. Four to six weeks to heal. The doctor told Father that he wanted to see me again in four weeks, and as soon as he was gone, I was quickly swept back into the basement.

Every day I went through another box of Father’s belongings he had left in the basement. Usually I found books, old pictures. Occasionally I stumbled upon dolls or other toys. One day I found a small mirror. It was cloudy and cracked down the middle, but it was the first time I remembered seeing a reflection of myself. I stared at my own dirty face and found that I vaguely resembled the woman that had constantly appeared in the pictures I had come across. Alarmed, I dropped the mirror and grabbed the last photo album I had gone through. The woman was on the first page, smiling down at a crying baby in her arms. I quickly tore the photo out and turned it over. Arianna and Rapunzel (3 months). I placed the photo next to my pillow, and turned my attention back on the box.

Father forgot to turn on the light one morning, so I did not wake up until he brought me my breakfast. As he set a bowl of cereal next to me, he noticed the picture I had placed next to my pillow. He grabbed it angrily and tore it up. Helpless, I just watched the pieces fall onto the mattress next to me. I refused to look at him while he climbed the stairs. As he stomped around upstairs, dust rained down on me and the ruined photograph. I simply threw my blanket over my head and hoped he would calm down before it was time to bring me my next meal. His level of anger always affected the quality of food I received, and since my breakfast was now covered in dust and probably a couple spiders, I felt the need to remain optimistic.

It was the middle of the night, but I was still awake. I had pulled the chair over to the window and was staring out at the stars. In that moment I just wanted to be outside, to see the sky just a little better. The moon, the stars. Feel the midnight breeze in my hair. The lightbulb turned on, and I frantically scrambled down from the chair and onto my mattress. Father descended the stairs slowly, carrying a small box. He sat it down beside me and muttered an apology for waking me up. His eyes flickered to the chair under the window but said nothing as he turned to leave. I counted his slow thirteen steps and laid down as the light turned back off.

In the morning, when the lightbulb flickered back to life, I opened my new box. At the very top was a beautifully pressed golden hibiscus flower. I stared at it for a moment, reveling in the beauty of it. I set it aside when I saw a newspaper clipping of an obituary. Arianna Sorin, 26, died April 14, 1993 near her home in Bristol, Virginia. Arianna is survived by her husband Frederic Sorin and their daughter Rapunzel Sorin. I stared at the photo. The woman from all of the photographs stared back at me.

Father woke me one morning much earlier than usual. He led me upstairs and once again left me in the bathroom to shower. I assumed that the doctor was coming for my check up, and I just embraced the new clothes Father had picked out for me and the opportunity to properly bathe. When I exited the bathroom, a lone photograph in the hallway caught my eye. I stopped just for a moment because I noticed a young Father, standing next to Arianna from the photos, and holding a toddler me. Father, noticing my gaze, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the living room to await our guest. The doctor only stayed for a few minutes. He removed my brace, checked over my wrist, and declared me healed. Father paid him, and I was once again shoved back into the basement.

One winter it snowed for several days in a row. I could no longer see out of my little window. My thin blanket did little against the cold radiating off of the frigid concrete. I heard Father before I could see him, coughing from the top of the stairs all the way to the bottom. He brought me a mug full of hot chocolate and warm fuzzy socks. He left as quickly as he came without a single word. I didn’t put on the socks until I could hear his cough from directly above me.

The next time I saw the outdoor man he was shoveling snow. The only reason I could even see him was because he came over to knock the snow off the side of the house. He brushed the snow away from the window, and immediately, without thinking, I had pulled my chair up to the window and was staring out at him. He bent down to pick something up, and we made eye contact. I stood transfixed. He smiled at me, and I smiled back.

I finished the last book. Hundreds of books in the basement, and I had been through them all. Dictionaries, picture books, encyclopedias, novels, and so many others. I had been through all the photo albums, read every single handwritten note on the back, memorized all of the pictured people’s names, connected them all back to Father and I, imagined lives for them all. I had organized everything into their own separate boxes. I had nothing but time on my hands. Now what was I supposed to do?

The light bulb had burnt out. I had not seen Father in several hours, but I was tired of sitting in the dark. It was still daytime, but there was not enough light coming in to do anything other than sit on my bed and think. I was scared to get Father’s attention, but he would have the replacement bulbs, and I could not do anything. I walked slowly up the stairs and tapped lightly on the door. I heard the angry footsteps and stared down at my feet until Father swung open the basement door.

When the outdoor man returned for the third time, he came straight to the window. He pointed to me and then pointed up. I believe he wanted me to go outside. I shook my head. He looked disappointed for a moment but quickly stood up. I could hear muffled shouting. The man walked off, and I could see Father walking across the lawn. The man gestured towards me. I jumped down from the chair, shaking.

The basement door flung open. He was just as angry as I expected. I flinched with each loud step he took down the wooden stairs. Instead of thirteen steps, I counted seven. Saying nothing and breathing heavily, he walked purposefully over to the chair. With my eyes on the ground, I heard him pick it up and hit it repeatedly against the wall. One tear slid to the edge of my nose and fell to the floor.

I stayed in a ball on my mattress for a long time. My eyes were continuously glued to the broken pieces of wood on the floor. The lightbulb turned off for the night and back on in the morning. Father left me alone and simply tossed water bottles down the stairs every once and awhile. I did not move. I never saw the outdoor man again.

The mirror in my hand shook. I looked at my reflection for possibly the last time and smashed the mirror against the wall. I could hear Father upstairs, moving as quickly as he could towards the basement door. Being careful not to cut myself, I picked up the biggest shard of glass and grabbed a large chunk of my loose hair. Without giving it a second thought, I cut right through it at shoulders length. The hair slid to the floor at my feet, just as Father flung open the basement door. He called out to me, but I did not respond. Instead, I continued chopping at my hair.

Father reached the bottom of the stairs and simply stared at me in horror. He slowly walked over to me, staring at the pile of golden hair at my feet. I closed my eyes and braced myself against the inevitable harsh words and any physical harm I was about to endure, but neither came. When it became apparent to me that I was not about to be punished, I opened my eyes cautiously. Father sat before me, a broken man, his fists full of my hair. Tears rolled down his tired face. While I had cried many times alone in the dark, I had never seen another person cry, nor did I know how to handle it. Even though he occasionally mistreated me, I loved Father: he gave me everything I needed to survive.

The open basement door caught my eye. Leaving Father on the floor behind me, I headed up the stairs slowly for the first time without fear. One. Two. Three… Thirteen. I stood briefly at the top of the stairs and listened, Father must have not moved from his seat in the mountain of hair. I had expected him to chase after me. Purposefully, I walked through the hallway, past the bathroom, past the living room, and stopped just before the front door. My hand shook as I reached for the door knob. Taking a deep breath, I threw it open before I could talk myself out of it. Cold air hit me immediately, and I stood in the doorway shivering. As I looked around, I realized there was no other indicators of human life surrounding us: no cars, no houses. Only trees, sky, and grass fields. The only road I could see was just dirt and only the width of a single car.

I stood in the doorway for a long time. My bare feet were numb, and my thin t-shirt and jeans did little against the winter wind. I stared at the clouded over sky and listened to the strong wind through the trees. The trees were empty of leaves, and the once colorful and well-kept flowers gardens were dried up and taken over by weeds. Taking a couple steps back into the house, I shut the door. I could hear Father ascending the stairs slowly. He called out to me.

Father appeared in the hallway, carrying a fistful of my hair in one hand and a photo of my mother in the other. Her golden hair flowed down to her waist; it was the only picture in which I had seen her hair loose. I could still see the tear tracks on his face. I just stood still, waiting for him to make the next move.