No One Will Know

6. Playtime

                I’m trapped. Technically not in this small bedroom I’m in, but trapped in this home. But of course, I already knew that. And that’s why I accepted the small room I was shown too. All that fits inside this bedroom is a small twin size bed, and a small light on the ceiling. And it is not much of a bed, but more so of a mattress. With one ratty, holey blanket on top that is about as thin as a cover sheet.

                I sit on the bed, smelling dust all around me. I cough, wrapping my arms around me as if to rid of the smell of old and the cold that seems to live in the air of this room. There’s not even a window to determine what time of day it is.

                To try and warm my thoughts, I think about things. It is or was my birthday. What day is it now? I can’t tell.  What is Leslie doing? Is she making out with her new boyfriend, Marcus? Studying agriculture? Visiting her grandfather in his retirement home? There are endless possibilities.

                A knock on the door shakes me away from my hometown. I should say hello or something, but I’m not in a greeting sort of mood, and I really don’t know who in this house deserves a greeting anyways. “Mom?”

                My head turns swiftly towards the door, not expecting the child. I don’t know what to say or react around this kid. It’s just a small child and she seems pretty innocent to her father kidnapping me, but what do I say? I’m not her mom. I don’t even know who her mom is. And I don’t want to play pretend.

                It takes me a minute or two, of her coming in and sitting next to me, of her placing her small hand on mine. It takes that long for me to think of what I am going to say. “How about you call me Addie for fun?”

                I see her think over that, like she can’t quite understand what I mean. Then she says, “Like play pretend?” And I see a smile build on her face. And it seems to me like she doesn’t get to do much around here, and that causes a bit of sadness to build with in me. Enough for me to pick her up and set her on my lap. Because I just know that none of this is her fault. She doesn’t know the truth about the man she calls her father.

                “Yep!” I say with a smile, “Like pretend.”

                She holds up a doll in her left hand, a small little rag doll, made from patterns and various colors and then she places it in my hand. She has a grin plastered from ear to ear when she says, “Molly and I like to play house! I’m the mommy and she’s the baby.”

                “Oh? Is that-?” I’m about to finish the question when the door opens again, shattering the peaceful moment. For both of us. She immediately stops talking about playing pretend and house and jumps off my lap.

                “It’s time for dinner, Anastasia. And, Mia, I told you that you weren’t allowed to be in here. Your mommy needs her rest. And what’s that thing? Hmm?! I told you that you were too old for dolls!” I watch as he wretches the doll from her tiny hands and tiny fingers, her holding on so tightly that she falls to the ground when he wretches it from her grasp, her little curls sprawling over the floor as her head makes contact.

                The room is quiet for a moment. Not a sound can be heard, I swear. He stares at her, she stares at him, and I stare at them both. I don’t know what to say. What do you say to that?

                The man is the first one to speak. “You little brat! See what you did? Come here!” He yanks her up by her hair and a gasp finds its way out of my mouth. I see the tears pull her in her eyes as I hear her scream no again and again. And then I can’t help myself, I’m grabbing at him, his arms, his neck, he has to stop.

                “Stop, stop hurting her!” I push him backwards, though it makes no difference, he doesn’t budge. I feel tears at my eyes, because it’s just horrible, that someone could do that to their own kid. But then I recall that it happened to me. Hair pulling, pushing, kicking, punching. I was in a coma for a week in fifth grade, after I was propelled backwards into a wall.

                But even after the abuse I suffered it doesn’t make this right. Nothing could make this right. “She’s just a kid.”

                “Yeah and I’m just Michael. Doesn’t mean she has a right to disrespect me.”

                And just like that, I know my kidnappers name.