Memories of the Forgotten: Attic GirlA Story by Jasmine Thousand Can you hear me? Memories of the Forgotten: Attic Girl Can You Hear Me?I opened my eyes as the sound of three knocks entered the room. The faint haze of morning light came into the tiny attic, from the small dirty window in the corner. I yawned and made my way over to the 8 x 8 hole in the floor, hauling up a 6 x 6 meal on a tin platter and a bottle of water. There was a kind of lift there; all I had to do was reel it in. I sighed and went back to my floor-level bed that was covered with a light pink blanket-not new, but not too old. I’d asked for a new one recently, after I was sure I almost froze to death during an exceptionally cold night.
Sunlight now streamed through the window, and I went over to look outside. It was always the same- a turquoise house and grass and a large tree. Had I ever touched a tree? I didn’t know. All I did know was I was taken here after some trauma when I was five that caused me to forget everything about my life up to that point. My earliest memory consists of looking at the mirror I’d hung in direct path of the sunlight to bring in as much of that precious Vitamin D. as possible. Staring at my turquoise eyes and my long straight hair. Wishing that there were more of that wonderful sunlight in this little attic-world. I had a lamp, of course, but it was tiny and was pretty much meaningless during the day. I finished the last morsel of cereal that I had been given and laid down on the bed.
There were 593 books in my attic-believe me I’d counted- and they were mainly school books. I did them, learned every single thing in them, and knew them by heart. It’s boring up here, and with nothing to do, I studied my way up to a high school math and reading level. I’m not sure how old I am, but I think I’m around ten. So, this was a pretty good accomplishment. The other non-school books were reading books- Jane Eyre, Harry Potter, To Kill a Mockingbird and A Wrinkle in Time. There were others, but those were my favorites. Eventually I learned my favorite phrases in them and made my own little books-but soon I found that I was writing my own experiences. So I called the book: Memories of the Forgotten. I made different stories about different girls in each one, but I called mine Attic Girl. It fit, I thought.
Sometimes I wonder if the people who knock on the wall to let me know my food-or request, if I asked for a pencil or some paper- are my actual family. I decided not, one day.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
Food was here. I went to go get it, but instead of leaning back like I was supposed to when I reel it up, something came over me. I leaned down and tried to get a look at whoever it was. Huh-nobody there. White walls, white floor-odd. I leaned down even more. Suddenly, an arrow shot up at me. I scooted back just in time.
I’d be dead right now if I hadn’t stood back.
No, these people were not my family. This absolutely confirmed it. I stumbled back onto my bed, perspiration slipping down my forehead. Talk about a scare. I slumped down, staring at the white ceiling that had been painted with golden lettering, over and over again:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 TALK and then an arrow with red specks surrounding it. Then again, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, then the arrow. I’ve always pondered the meaning of this, but now I thought I understood the arrow. Death. Haha. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. Not now, anyway.
That day, lunch didn’t arrive promptly at 3 P.M. like usual-it never arrived. Neither did dinner, or the next morning’s breakfast… I didn’t get any food at all for three days, and was delirious and sure I was going to die. The meaning was clear- Don’t do that again. Ever. Finally, against all odds, three knocks sounded, and I crawled over, making sure to lean back when I reeled it up. I finished the sandwich in two bites and finished the bottle in three gulps. I’d been rationing water until now, and had intended to save this one two, but I finished it before I realized. Luckily, though, food arrived for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. When five days later the food and water was still coming regularly, I relaxed a bit and stopped rationing, but I made sure to keep a bottle in the chest at the bottom of my bed from then on.
It was an attic, for sure, but aside from the tiny window and the ceiling that kept me awake at night, it seemed like a dream bedroom. The walls where white with a meadow painted around the walls and on the floor, a sky with hills and trees continuing into the distance-stopping abruptly at the ceiling. There was a white nightstand in the corner below my window with pink roses painted on it and a flowery frilled lamp, my only source of light. I tend to leave my diary on the nightstand, the one in which I had written Memories of the Forgotten. My bed, though ground level, was nice and pretty-pure white with the continuing pattern of pink roses on it. In the other corner of the bedroom were the bookshelves full of my books and the schoolbooks, my papers and pencils and calculator and erasers.
I got out my schoolbook and studied some more, when suddenly I heard three knocks. I glanced at the clock. It wasn’t three yet. What was it? I hauled it up, startled to find an envelope. Opening it, I found a neat little printed letter.
Dear Rose,
Year 1- You were born Rose Heartwhich at 1:23 A.M., 45 seconds on 6/7/89. The surgeons were Mr. and Mrs. Vaster.
Year 2- You were given a cat, by a Mr. and Mrs. Vaster
Year 3- Your mother died from sickness. Her doctors were Mr. and Mrs. Vaster.
Year 4- You were kidnapped during the night by a Mr. and Mrs. Vaster.
Year 5-You were brought here to this attic, by a Mr. and Mrs. Vaster.
Now it is Year 10. Do not look out the window this whole year, or suffer the consequences.
Consider yourself warned.
-Mr. and Mrs. Vaster.
My hands shook, and I dropped the letter out the window, taking care not to look outside. The arrow was immediate, landing loudly on the steel, having just missed the open slot in the window. Bad things happen in threes. I thought to myself. I wondered if my reflexes would be quick enough the third time. Five Months Later
The air was breezing in my face. I was stupid, I forgot. I held my hand up in the sunlight, and like a moth to a light, I drew to the open window. It was a glorious day. So pretty. I missed the air and the rocks and the grass and the trees…how lovely they were. Why hadn’t I looked out the window in the past five, long, long months? I’d forgotten.
Then I noticed the strangest thing. There was a girl standing beneath the tree! Maybe she could help me!
“Hello?” I whispered, the words strange and foreign on my tongue. Like a lost art that had gotten rusty.
“Hello?” I said, still louder.
“CAN YOU HEAR ME?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. The girl turned to me, her blue eyes startled, her golden curly hair bouncing on her shoulders.
But it was too late.
The arrow came from behind this time, swift and deadly. I felt blood trickle out of my mouth as I tried to say something to my last hope.
“Can you hear me?” It was but a whisper.
She couldn’t hear me. I fell with a thud on my bed, and felt the darkness close in. © 2012 Jasmine Thousand
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Jasmine ThousandAt the barricade, CAAboutYou see, deep down I've always believed people were truly good at heart. more..Writing
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