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No, not everyone.

27

Pace

Warmth trickles down my forearm,cooling before it hits my pants and soaks into the fabric. The gouge comes from the sharpened end of the plastic spoon delivered with my dinner. The cut fills me with a much needed hit of endorphins–a clear reminder that I’m still here. That the blood left on the floor is evidence I existed. That the time down here isn’t a gap that can’t be filled.

It’s been a full twenty-four hours since Father had Frank, his personal security goon, toss me down here. The mark of time is easy enough to document, the lights automatically shutting off at eight in the evening, snapping back on at eight in the morning. It’s pitch-black overnight. I can’t see anything. Hear anything. Just the pounding of my heart and the voices in my head.

I know one thing for certain.

I’m shit company.

The first night he sent me down here, I was barely seven. I remember crying so much I lost my voice. We’d been playing iceberg in the living room and Wicker cut his chin on the rocking chair. I’d never seen so much blood come out of such a pretty face. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

Father had called us into his office, and I waited for the punishment. All the homes I’d lived in had punishments. Beatings. Beratings. Withholding food. Scrubbing floors and pots until they shined. Whatever fit the environment and the master of the house.

Father wasn’t like any other master.

For Wicker’s sins, I paid the price.

All over a fucking game.

I’d had this problem back then–funny to imagine it now–of being afraid of the dark. So he locked me in at night, the room already absent of any light. I eventually found the cot and huddled underneath, refusing to move even after I wet myself. You’d think that when Father came down, I would have been embarrassed about both, but I was just so relieved to see daylight—to see another human—I didn’t care.

By the time I turned nine, things had changed. I grew used to the small, dark places. I made them my home, because that way, Father had no power over me. This room, even, with its squat walls, moldy ceiling, and frigid chill is as familiar to me as the locker room. I know every stone in the hard floor. I’ve memorized the drafts, the sounds of the house above me, even the scent of the air.

Eventually, it became almost soothing, like a vacation.

Where Wicker had practices and appearances, I had naps and solace. Where Lex had tutoring and camps, I had the bliss of a blank, unoccupied mind. There are no responsibilities down here. No appointments. No tests. No jobs or pretense. I’m unfiltered here, able to be entirely myself.

And even though these were lies I told myself to make it more bearable, Father resented the phony comfort. Punishments stopped being so scary. In fourth grade, we came home from boarding school over the holidays, our interim reports in hand. We lined up in front of Father’s desk and handed them to him, one after the other.

Mine had two Ds.

After handing him the paper, I turned on my heel and walked myself down to the dungeon. It was the last time he bothered punishing me for my own deeds. After that, if I came home with an unsatisfactory grade, it’d be Lex kneeling in front of the fireplace–or worse, it’d be Wicker getting dressed in his finest tuxedo for a night out with the only woman I’ve ever wanted to kill.

So yeah, the isolation hurts, but it’s not being alone that bothers me. That, I can handle. It’s the way Wicker is probably feeling about it right now. It’s the responsibilities I’m leaving behind in order to pay the debt. It’s the thought of Effie in a silent cage, staring at a blank screen, waiting for me to come home and give her a glimpse of the sky.

It twists in my chest, and I lean against the cold wall, bloody forearm propped on my knee as I wait, just like her.

A bird in a cage.

I’m notsure how long I’ve been dozing when I hear footsteps on the stairs in the distance.

I’m up long before the door heaves open, hands gripping the bars of my cell. “Did you feed Effie?” I ask, before I see who’s even entering. “Lex can do it. Or Wicker, even. But Danner knows if they’re not around.”

I hear the high-pitched panic in my voice against the stone walls.

But it’s Frank who walks through the door, holding a tray. Naturally, Father would never send family down. When Frank looks at me, his eyes go to the bloody smear on my arm.

“Did you hear me?!” I shout. “Is someone feeding my bird?”

He says nothing, just opens the slot near the floor and shoves the tray through, before turning on his heel and walking out.

“Hey, motherfucker!” I snap. “If something happens to her, I’m coming for you!” I scream, kicking the tray across the cell. “It’ll be on you, asshole! You’ll be a murderer!”

It’s only when the light pops on some time later–eight in the morning–that I realize the tray was breakfast.