The Hidden Child (#WATTYS2015)

Chapter 1 ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

Loud, muffled music pounds against my ears. My eyes slowly open. I make sure I wave my hands in front of my face before opening them completely.My arms feel like jelly, and my ribs sting and ache. I peel my body off the creaky floor. Dust is gathered up on my face and between my lips. I sputter out the dust bunnies from my mouth, grimacing at the gritty taste of dirt.

I immediately and instinctively turn back to the window sill. The tall, broad buildings stand close to one another. Pale, soft, white snow covers them like a cover. Snuggling the buildings away from the harsh winds. Looking closer, you can see people crowding the streets. Most of them heading the the same direction. Wearing layers and layers of clothing to keep them all warm. Cars piling up on streets as usual, speeding to and fro. It's as if I can practically see the warm, fuzzy, joyful winter feeling. Even if it may feel bitter on the outside.

Suddenly, the music stops. Curious, I press my ear against the attic's floor.

"Attention my fellow party animals! Since it's almost New Years, we are gonna kick it off with The Top 10 hottest sounds! Be prepared to jam!"

The thought hits me like a brick, today's New Years Eve! I glance at the rotting clock, 11:40 pm. Which means 10 minute until my 15th birthday. And it also means 10 minutes until the ball drops and the fireworks go off. Sometimes, I like to imagine that all of that was just for me.

I look out my little window, snatching my Polaroid camera from off the Tiny wooden shelf. Cobwebs hanging from its legs. Snapping a picture, I shake it for a few seconds. The picture slowly forming. Even though it doesn't catch all of the wonderful view I have, I still love it. Just like all the other pictures I take, even though most of them are the same. It's not like I'm allowed anywhere.

Ever since I was about five, my mother brought me here. At around seven years old, I had asked her why I wasn't allowed to leave here. She told me that it was a very bad world and bad things would be waiting for me. That scared me for years, and I never asked again. But when I turned 11, years after watching out my window, I asked her why I couldn't go out. I told her about all my observations of the outside.

"Because Hope, I know what is right for you. I don't want you to go out into the world yet, you wouldn't even be able to make it out of the apartment building. But here is one thing I want you to know: Whenever you are scared, filled with doubt, or need some help. Just think of me and I'll be there, in your thoughts. Ok baby?" She said it shaking, tears welling up in her eyes. That was the first time I noticed her cuts and bruises.

And the last time I saw them and heard her voice too.

Her scared face has been tattooed in my mind. Soft brown eyes, wavy dark brown hair that reached just below her shoulders. Quite short shorts, and a dark pink tank top that had fancy lace.

When she left my room that day, I heard a scream. And minutes later, cop cars were coming at the apartment complex. I didn't understand why she never came back. Awhile after that, an old woman had opened the attic door. She had heard me weeping of hunger and sadness.

And still to this day, that woman still comes to my door. She's like a grandmother to me, I don't know her name. So I just call her Nana.

A loud smash interrupts my thoughts. I jolt forwards, pressing my body against the window. I hear loud shouting and thumps against the wall. Screams of pain fill my ears, they were like my Mom's. The day she disappeared. I know what happened to her was bad, and whoever is screaming now won't have the same fate as her.

Slowly, I tip toe across the room. Peeking through the attic's fairly large keyhole.

A teenage boy, who has to be about 16 or 17 was cornered by about four large, some with tattoos others with scars. The boy has dark brown shaggy hair, falling just above his eyes. With green eyes that I thought were just dazzling. Despite the boys muscular figure, there is no way he could take on those full grown men.