My stomach grumbles. Well, guess I know what that means, I think while rolling my eyes. I shut the chemistry book in my hands while getting my butt off the hard wooden floor of the basement. Looking up, I assess the situation at hand. The whole family is out. It is a Tuesday morning after all.
I stride over to my bed and easily push the rickety old thing to the side, uncovering the familiar trapdoor on the floor. I bring myself to my hands and knees before grasping the cold metal of the handle. With a creak and a subtle thud, the trapdoor is opened. Smiling to myself, I drop six feet down through the trapdoor and land steadily on my feet.
I could always use the ladder my father conveniently built to climb down, but the thrill of dropping into pitch black darkness combined with the challenge of landing perfectly is something I cannot ignore. It is like eating sweets. Even though it might not be in your best interest, you keep on doing it. Or like sticking your hand into an unknown substance. My father lets me do that from time to time with his experiments. Why do you even do it?
Because it is fun; it is thrilling. You know what I mean?
I shake my head. Mira, you are talking to yourself again.
My arms go up slightly as my hands reach under my long, wavy hair to the back of my neck. When my fingers find the delicate gold chain around my neck, I proceed to unclasp it. Instantly, the chill of the room replaces the comforting warmth of the necklace.
I have worn this necklace for as long as I could remember. It is a thin gold chain, and hanging onto it with an even thinner gold piece is a perfectly smooth, round opal stone. The stone itself is small, a bit less than a centimeter in diameter. The opal is also my birthstone. I was born in October, just like my mother. After my mother passed away, my father only saw it fit that I wear it, too.
The opal on my necklace, in a weird way, reminds me of myself. I am insignificant, a nobody in this world. Heck, no one even knows I even exist except the people who created me. And not to mention, one of them is dead.
The slender ring that lets the opal be part of the chain is like my connections or relationships with, well, a lot of things. The chain could be like my mother, whom I am only linked to biologically and by a few memories. The chain is like the world; the world that does not know me, the world that is unaffected by me, the world that I only am in because I was born here.
I stand in the pitch black darkness thinking about this when I shake my head again for the second time in a couple minutes. Being alone with a lot of time on your hands means a lot of time reflecting and thinking inside my own head. If I cannot socialize with other people and allow them to reveal what is in their head to me, then I just spend excessive time in my head. That is how it works, right?
And I am talking to myself again.
I clench my fist with the necklace in hand, making sure the opal is exposed. I start rubbing the necklace vigorously against my thigh on my dull, gray box pleated skirt. After just a few seconds, the opal flickers to life as a white glow emanates from the small stone.
The simple necklace may look like any ordinary accessory people wear around their necks, but it is far from it. My father invented it. He took a common necklace, pulled it apart, and built microscopic parts onto it. The necklace is more like a tool now, an extremely convenient tool that my mother used. And now, it is mine to use.
Sorry, technically the parts my father built are not microscopic, but I just meant the parts he built are incredibly small. My father would have corrected me on that statement, telling me that I am "dishonoring science" or that I am "saying nonsense".
Huh, thinking about it now, I guess there is another way the necklace is like me. I may look like an ordinary girl if someone were to look at me, but I am far from normal. But I do not want to think further on about how I am not normal; it just encourages this wanting feeling from my gut to grow. That feeling does not feel good, at all.
As I clasp the necklace back on, I blink repeatedly as my eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. There are three ladders in front of me. Grabbing a hold on the ladder to the left, I begin my ascent.
My father, the brilliant man he is, built secret passageways throughout the house. There is a passageway to go to the backyard and another one to go to the kitchen. There are also other passageways in case we need to escape, like one that goes to the nearest trolley station and the other to the sewers.
Finally, my feet are on the final rung, and I crawl in the sort of rectangular indent that signals that I am here. Using my thumb and index finger, I raise my opal necklace to my lips and blow on it, extinguishing the light. I grope with my right hand in front of me to find and lift the latch that is shutting my entryway. With a soft click, the cabinet opens a crack. Only the sound of my breathing is heard as I strain my ears to affirm that no one is on the other side. Cautiously, I push the cabinet door further until I could shimmy my body through.
I am on all fours on the white tile of the kitchen floor. Looking up, I see the white cabinets and the island that is blocking my view of the living room. To the family living here, the kitchen cabinet is merely a fake cabinet. Before, when this house was unoccupied, my father attached a latch onto the inside of this cabinet so that we could gain access to the kitchen, mainly for food. It is quite the disguise, and the family never thinks to open this cabinet. And even if they do, it is locked from the inside so it would not budge.
I told you my father was brilliant.
Who am I talking to? Absolutely to no one but yourself, Mira. No, not yourself, myself.
I exhale softly. Great conversation! Now focus, Mira.
Keeping my ears open, I straighten up and sweep the living room for any person that might silently be there.
Nobody.
I know exactly what I want. With hurried movements, I open the cabinet nearest to me and snatch the peanut butter. Then, I seize the bread laying on the counter, tuck it under my arm, and pull out a butter knife from a kitchen drawer to my right. With the knife now held in my mouth, I crouch down to pull the "fake" cabinet further open and crawl inside backwards so that my feet are leading and I am facing the kitchen.
When I am no longer on the hard tile floor of the kitchen, I reach out, pulling the cabinet door closed as the darkness surrounds me. I unclasp my necklace once again with only one hand, an efficient trick I developed over the years of having to do this numerous times, and rub it against my hip until the stone glows. I fasten the necklace back around my neck and begin the descent, my mind starting to create a list of how I should occupy the long day ahead of me.
YOU ARE READING
Torn Pages
General FictionI have lived my whole life underground. More specifically, I've lived under a house with a family living inside it. They all don't know I even exist. No one does, anyway, except my mother who's dead and my father who's now seemingly missing. Oh, not...
