L U L L A B Y

A Story by Justin Mark

a girl who has come to terms with her imprisonment

I was cold, clothed only by the remaining remnants of my blankie that hadn't been washed in weeks. I clutched my Mary doll in my arms, holding and kissing it softly with each peck on its cheek meaning a thousand different words, all meaning “I love you,” words that I dared to say aloud. The chains on the door kept me and my doll in, and let no filthy rat or headless cockroach out. I squeezed my doll again, combing its hair with my fingers, and pressing it against my cheek.

It was done. The chains began unraveling, and the door had mysteriously unlocked itself. I closed my eyes shut, weeping quietly into my blood-stained doll. He grabbed me by my arm and threw me across the floor. I felt my insides jump and my stomach unsteady. Now singing to my doll, he screamed at me while I was listening to the angelic tones leaving my mouth. The man had left me. My stomach growled like how a dog would bark at an intruder as I looked menacingly at the food tray the man had left for me.

On the tray was cold mac and cheese, a glass of chunky milk, and a hand-written letter. I picked out the spoon I had stuffed into Mary's dress and scooped a spoonful of mac and cheese. While I forced it into my mouth, I drew tears of anguish as the only thing I'd drink were those tears coming out of my eyes. My hands so grimy from wiping away snot, and my dress so dusty from the black floors, I held up the hand-written letter in front of the barred window to get an inch of sunlight from the upcoming sunrise. On the letter, I had recognized my mother's handwriting. She wrote so delicately that it seemed it was printed out using a fancy font, but I could smell that raspberry flavor my mother always imprints on her pen that she uses to write the other letters that were laid on my trays, letters that are now stuffed in Mary's dress. This time, she wrote about the lullaby she'd always sing to me before she would tuck me into sleep. She knows that she can't sing to me now, as the sun began to rise over the horizon. I laid the raspberry-smelling letter on the windowsill, stared out through the window, admiring the sunrise, and began to sing the lullaby that used to lure me into sleep, but now greets me when I wake.

“Sunrise and blue flowers

A beautiful angel that towers

Guides and blesses me through all hours

And sings a melodic tune that empowers”

I paused quietly as I remembered the next dreaded verse of the lullaby my mother used to sing to me. My mother used to always stop after the first verse so I could fall asleep peacefully without her getting worried about me having nightmares. But I'd sometimes pretend to sleep while closing my eyes just to get a glimpse of that precious verse my mother never wanted me to hear.

“Now flowers wilting and sun fleeing dead

The angel transforming into another so red

Away, far away, from the pursuer's path ahead

Once upon me, forces a death unsaid”

I realized I had fallen asleep after singing the tranquil tune of that verse. The sound of pouring rain outside the barred window had awoken me up. Nothing but the moon was shining brightly throughout the sky, with a mist of clouds blocking the view. I sat on the windowsill, braiding my hair, watching Mary lean against the pillar, right beside the tray of mac and cheese and the glass of spoiled milk, now infested with cockroaches and rats, both fighting over the overcooked, cold cheesiness. It was happening once again. It was a new moon; I must have forgotten as it's occurred during every full moon before. The chains began unraveling once again, and a little girl, who looked as if she was the same age as me, came stumbling onto the gray, dusty floor, with the steel door locking behind her, and the chains tightening to its former shape.

The girl looked puzzled, as she examined not me, but the frightening scene of the cockroaches drowning in the chunk of milk. A bloody lip and a bruised forehead was displayed across her face. I started my usual routine; I began wrapping up the many loose remnants of my blanket from around the area into a long, but thin cord, reaching the length of a little bit more than half of the room. The girl sat against the pillar, beginning to caress my own Mary doll against her white, but yellow-stained dress. I went to her, ignoring the rats that began laying against her feet, and held out my hand for her to hold as her other hand was busy clutching my doll. I brought her over to the windowsill, pointing out to the moon. She didn't understand.

I tried taking my Mary doll, but she fidgeted and gave me a blank face. I pulled her arm as she struggled and showed her Mary's braided hair, and how long Mary's hair, now un- tucked out of her own dress, had nearly fallen to the floor. The girl understood. And as I led out a huge screech as I kicked open the bars, breaking it off from the windowsill, I yelled to her, “Run!” I dropped the rope of blankets through the bar-less window and she climbed down it. The steel door had begun unraveling its chains, finally. Before I knew it, the girl below had reached the beautiful wet grass safely, waving my Mary doll up at my face, showing it off as a tear fell across my cheek and onto the windowsill, blending in with the rain droplets from the sky. Behind me, I heard a beautiful tune that sounded like my mother. It was my mother. And as she continued singing, I wiped my tears off my rosy red cheeks, turned away from the now-safe girl and the bar-less window, and faithfully hugged my mother with both arms around her. And as she sang about a dead sun and a red angel, there, stood in the doorway, was my father.