But I can’t.
I throw the phone away, knocking it away like it’s a venomous snake, anything to stop the pressure building in my chest. But the phone doesn’t fall far, and the screen lights up again, taunting me with its silent insistence.
It’s crazy how trauma makes you push people away when all you want is love.
I pop another Prozac in my mouth and wash it down with old coffee from this morning. And all of a sudden, I feel really tired. Like the world has drained me for everything I never had.
Chapter 32
The Little Girl with the Wild Red Hair in the Basement
Isabella
I’m in the basement again, a place so cold that my bones ache from the chill. The concrete floor beneath me is slick with the residue of years of neglect. The flickering light above offers little comfort, casting distorted shadows that seem to move on their own. The walls feel like they’re closing in, but no matter how much I try to move, I’m stuck. The stench of mildew and rot fills my nostrils, burning my lungs with every shallow breath.
I don’t know how long I’ve been down here this time. Days?
My wild red hair, once a fiery crown of curls, now hangs limp and unkempt, the color dulled from the lack of sunlight. My skin, once pale like moonlight, is now ashen, almost translucent, drained of any warmth. The pink flush that would rise when I was happy, when I was angry—it’s gone, replaced by a sickly hue that makes me feel like a ghost in my own body.
The bones that once felt strong beneath my skin now jut out too sharply, a constant reminder of the starvation I’ve endured. My ribs press against the fabric of my clothes, a cruel, aching outline of the body I used to recognize. The freckles that used to speckle my face like a constellation are now faded, like a forgotten memory. The sun doesn’t touch me anymore, andneither does the light.
This is me; the little girl named Isabella Marie Brown.
I’m lying on the floor, weak, drained. My stomach growls, but there’s nothing to fill it. No food. No water. Just the taste of metal on my tongue and the emptiness gnawing at my insides.
My body feels fragile, my skin stretched tight over bones that have forgotten what it’s like to be nourished. My mind is hazy, floating somewhere far away as I try to block out the suffocating thoughts that threaten to swallow me whole.
I’m lying on the cold, hard floor of the basement, but the voices pull me from the depths of my fog, clear and sharp, like an itch I can’t scratch. I squint into the dim light, my body weak, trembling with the effort to move.
I push myself up slowly, my bones creaking with the strain. My hands are slick against the concrete, the sharp edges of the floor biting into my palms as I rise to my feet. The ache in my body is almost unbearable, but I force myself to stand, to stagger toward the stairs. Every step feels like it’s cutting through me, my legs wobbling beneath the weight of malnutrition and despair.
The stairs creak under my feet as I climb, each step a small victory, a small defiance against the crushing weight of everything I am enduring. My breath is shallow, rasping, but I push through it, driven by the desperate need to hear what’s happening above.
When I reach the top, I stop, standing in the shadows just against the basement door. The muffled voices from above seep through the cracks, their words distorted by the layers of wood and stone between us, but they’re getting closer now. I press my ear against the door, the cold wood pressing into the side of my face like a bruise.
Through the silence, I hear the low murmur of conversation, the voices soft at first, but then one of them raises, sharp,commanding.
“Is she doing alright?”
The voice is unfamiliar, male, though I know they have no idea what’s really going on.
Then I hear him. His voice. That venomous slither that sends a chill through my entire body.
“She’s doing great,” he says, the words slick and smooth, like he’s rehearsed them a thousand times. “She’s at school, doing better than ever. You know how she is—always too stubborn for her own good. But she’s strong. She’s fine, just a normal child to the outside world. In the absent of knowing anything.”
I stumble back from the door, my knees shaking beneath me as the weight of his words presses down on my chest, suffocating me. The darkness here is mine, the silence my only companion.
My mind spins in a haze of confusion and sadness, but then, like always, I hear the soft whisper of my imaginary friend. She’s always there when I need her, soft and gentle, a voice I can trust.
I drop to the floor, curling into the corner like I’ve done so many times before, pulling my knees to my chest. My little hands shake as I wrap them around my legs, trying to hold myself together.
“He lied again,” I whisper, the words trembling on my lips. “He always lies. I’m not at school. I’m here. I’m hungry. I’m scared.”
My imaginary friend doesn’t speak at first, but I can feel her presence, like a soft warmth next to me in this place of shadows. I lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes, trying to block out the harshness of reality.
“He’s always so mean,” I continue, my voice barely a whisper. “He says I’m fine, but I’m not. I can’t even remember the last time I ate... or the last time I saw the sun. And who is he talkingto?”
A soft laugh—gentle and comforting—whispers through my mind. “You don’t need the sun, Izzy,” she says, the name she gave me like a soft lullaby. “You’ve got me.”
