The Closet

“The Closet”1

The closet was small, dark, dank, and damp. It smelled of mold, mildew, old sweat, and urine, but to her it was home. She pulled her thin and tattered blanket around her shoulders, battered and bruised from the evening’s escapades, trying to keep warm, fighting off each fit of shivering as it came. The sex had been unusually brutal this time, leaving her bottom lip split, and left eye closed. She sniffed silently as she huddled in the far corner, not daring to make a sound, letting her tears flow unabated down her swollen cheeks. It wasn’t long before she heard his drunken snores coming from the outer room that she let herself relax a little. Raising her head from the fetal position she was in, she saw something that she had never seen at night before; light. She stared at it through tear blurred eyes for a while not truly comprehending its full meaning, or its ramifications. Finally it dawned on her. In his drunken stupor he had forgotten to latch the closet door. Still, she was afraid to move. What if this was some kind of trick? But she could hear him snoring, and she knew that snore. Unfolding herself, she got onto her hands and knees, and was instantly greeted by painful reminders of his earlier abuse. Ignoring the pain she inched her way to the door, and tried to peek out through the crack, but couldn’t see much of anything but a sack of potatoes propped up next to the kitchen cabinets. Sitting back on her heels, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then slowly pushed the closet door open a little. It protested at first, but made no sound, and light poured into the closet from the lantern perched on the large wooden table in the middle of the room. She basked in the freedom of its brilliance for a moment, not sure of what to do next. Just looking at its glowing light made her want to cry but the sound of his snore cut out any of the joy that she felt. Looking around the kitchen, she was amazed at how different everything appeared to be. The potatoes propped up in the corner seemed to resonate with a new taste. The dishes in the sink seemed to gleam with a shimmering shine, and even the dingy curtains hanging in the window appeared to radiate with colors vibrant and clean. She gathered up her courage and crawled halfway out of her prison, fully expecting him to wake up and beat her half to death, but she was used to that, and she was forming an idea. She waited tensely in the kitchen for him to wake up, but he did not. So, ignoring her protesting knees, she crawled over the hardwood floor to the foot of his bed, and still he did not stir. She watched him in his peaceful slumber with a dumb smile on his sleeping lips. “You bastard,” she thought, “All I ever have are nightmares.” Sitting back on her heels, she watched him sleep for some time, reliving in her mind all of the beatings, the rapes, and the servitude he had subjected her to. She was only thirteen, but she felt as though she was ninety. It had to stop, but who was going to stop it? There was no one that could help her. She tried complaining to a city patrolman once, but he just sent her back in to his waiting arms, more or less, and the beating she got for that definitely deterred her from even attempting it again. So no, there was no one to help her. She was on her own. If she was going to stop him, she was going to have to do it by herself, and he had to be stopped. This had to end, and she was going to have to be the one to end it. Her eyes drifted over his sleeping figure to where his sword belt laid hanging across the back of a chair. Crawling over to it, she realized how ridiculous the idea was to begin with, the sword was just too big for her to use. But as she began to move away, she spied the road to her salvation. A dagger. A beautiful dagger. She never would have even noticed it if it hadn’t had been for the glint of light reflecting off of the large blood red ruby that rested at the end of its pommel. It called to her, it sang to her, it seemed to know her name, and it was paving for her a road to freedom through the darkness. All she had to do was turn the key and her shackles would be removed permanently, but could she do it? Picking up the blade, she found that it was light as a feather, and warm to the touch. In a way, it almost felt as though it were alive. Once again, she sat back on her heels just to stare at his sleeping figure, now only two feet from his face, contemplating his future, and his fate. His breath was stale with alcohol, and almost fetid, but she didn’t care, nor did she move away. She held the blade in her open palms before her, staring down at the ruby flickering in the lantern’s dim light. She began to regulate her breathing, slowing hers to match his snoring, caressing the sounds if it were a beacon in the night, a last chapter in a book, a last act in a play. Opening her one good eye, she slowly grasped the dagger in both hands, and positioned it just above his right eye.2

“It stops here you bastard” she said aloud.3

His eyes fluttered open for just a second upon hearing her voice, but it was far too late for words. She plunged the dagger deep and hard into his eye socket with such viciousness, that it pierced his skull as well, allowing his blood, and brain matter to soak into his pillow running down through the fabric to stain his already dirty sheets. His mouth flew open, but no words issued forth, and as for the rest of the body, no major move was made. It seemed it was over before it began. She had expected so much more. How long she sat there and stared she did not know, but it wasn’t too long. Wrenching the dagger free from his head, she spit in his face and screamed, “I was your daughter you son of a bitch! I hope you burn in Hell!”4

After cleaning the blade on his pillow, she took it back to her closet with her and lay down with it as if it were a doll. Huddled up in her worn and tattered blanket, she slipped down into a dark and yet fitful sleep, but she left the closet door open.5