The Open Window

Dear Diary,

It is currently 12:00 pm on the 16th of December and as the breeze blows the docks start to sway, in perfect harmony as the imposing brick building greets us in the shadows, while along the island it’s covered with old machinery, a rotting café sits ignored as it greets the night of which emanates a dusty smell. Factories invade the edges of the island allowing no escape. Beady eyes constantly watch you everywhere with interest and knowledge. In the centre sits a hill of which sits a 3 story house which has 16 rooms, this house sits on gravel and did I mention the only way on and off the island is through a ferry of which only arrives once a month, until then you must embrace the mysteriousness (oh and welcome to Cockatoo Island). My name is Roxanne Smith, and I am 16 years old, I live in the 3 story house on the top of the hill centre in the island, of which I share with Mr Smith (my good for nothing father). The house has 16 windows of which 15 of them are always welcoming to the outside, although the odd window remaining on the 3rd story has been locked since I arrived here. Every day he remains behind the 16th window in the 16th room holed up from any outside connections, or as I presume, unless he has a laptop, like he could afford one, otherwise we wouldn’t be here in this dump. I presume it must be something to do with the loss of my mother, although it’s been 16 years (hasn’t he gotten over it yet). Although one day, while having a leisure walk, my feet sliding on the gravel, I noticed the same window that is always locked was opened and continuously banging against the window border frame, this would seem normal, if there were any trees to conjure the breeze strong enough to create the banging motion. Deciding this was strange I decided to investigate more, I got one of the many ladders we keep along the side of the house, and I lined it up with the window for perfect trajectory, strangely Mr Smith was not seen. Proving it was safe I made my way in slow, steady of which failed as my foot greeted Mr Smith’s customary wooden desk. I remember the feel of my gym boots and the imprint they surely left, this would worry me, but right now, this was not my priority. I keep writing, as to warn you of what I have learnt, about my family while on this island, it is now 12:04. I give myself less than a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkness surrounding the room, as I look around the room I can distinguish that in the corner of the room stands an old cupboard of which shows an innocent beauty, light from the moon shines into the room hitting the cupboard at 16 degrees. There were many other features in the room of which I cannot explain to you as my vision and thought process was set on the old cupboard in the corner of the room. My feet unconsciously drag towards the cupboard as if I were its puppet and it was holding the strings, my hand reaches out towards the door, I grasp the doorknob and I pull with force, although surprisingly the door stays shut and no movement is heard. As I strain my vision as I see a lock on the door of which requires a number passcode, I look away into the moon and I get struck with a thought. Did I mention that I never found out why, why I was pulled away from my life at this age of 16 that is, why not at 17 or 18 at least then my schooling would be finished. So as i stare at the lock, my hands start to gain some control and my fingers put in the number 16 and surprisingly again the door opens, it is now 12:08. With a quick pull of my hand, the cupboard door swings open and once again my eyes adjust, rather quickly my sight rests on a pile of 15 diaries although it didn’t occur to me that rather than 16 there were 15. Realising they must be of some importance, I drag them onto the wooden floorboard as a loud protest covers the house. I flip through the first diary and I realise that it’s author is a Cynthia Smith of which the realisation of family swarms on me, although the diary is addressed to a Roxy Smith, of which once again, a dread creeps up on me as Roxy a common nickname many called me throughout my childhood was now used by this strange woman, it had me wondering could this be addressed to me, but if so how did Cynthia Smith relate to me, my answers are quickly found, the end of the diary contains a picture of me as a baby, in the arms of a woman, and on her right hand side a strange man, both adults share characteristics of my hair and eyes, my confusion toward the mysterious woman makes me wonder if she could be my mother whilst the strange man intrigues me. Surrounding myself in the picture is red circle as if I am being targeted for some reason. Boom, I drop the picture of which drifts towards the darkened wooden floors, as it floats the picture flips and I vaguely see cursive writing covering its backside, of which it has the signature from a Cynthia Smith and Edward Smith. Although the diary mentions a Roberto Riego and mentions meeting him at 16 of age, a picture is included and, strangely enough that picture resembles Mr Smith or Mr Riego as I should say, this stops my train of thought.  I quickly gather the two photos in my hand and hastily shove them into the pockets of jumper whilst shoving the diary away. I reach for the remaining diaries, I swiftly flip through, photos greet me, the realisation hits me as the pattern, that each is diary entry is off a woman with similar features to Cynthia Smith, whilst also  each entry the woman had some connection to a man who had the same physique and features as Roberto although stating a different name, whilst also stating the first meeting between them was at the age of 16, whilst each diary entry seemed to end around the same time frame on the 16th of December, in contrast to the diary entry from Cynthia Smith which lasted until she was 32, coincidently was exactly 16 years after she met Roberto. 12:12 and a dread consumed me, as questions rang through my head. Why was I here? What did he want with me? Are Cynthia and Edward my real parents? How did he forge his name as my father on the foster papers? Will the only thing left off me be a diary like these women? Why is there a pattern with the number 16? What makes 16 so valuable to him? How long do I have left? I like all other victims am an identical twin to my mother, Cynthia Smith and reluctantly I admit this. In terror I make a dash and a stumble to put back the diaries in the cupboard in an attempt to restore the room, I rush to get out, as the dread, terror and questions all corner me. I stagger through the room to the window, my only guide, the moon’s reflective light, I make my way down the ladder my feet comfortably and reassuringly hit the gravel at last.  And as I attempt to calmly continue my stroll Mr Riego appears through the window as he cockily stands at his wooden desk and he smirks down at me, although refusing to back down I smirk back and in my head repeats, i will not be your 16th victim, I will survive. I will make my escape at 1600, and smirk all you want Mr Riego because when 1605 approaches I will be long gone. Thanks to the open window, I finish at 12:16 on the 16th of December but this will not be my last entry.

Yours sincerely Roxanne Smith.