Untitled and unfinished
By Jennifer Haynes

“One, two, three…yes, three,” I said to myself. I had no one to talk to other than me. “It has been three months.” I counted the months so that every twelve I would make a notch in the wall to represent a year. So far there were seven notches.

I had been in some trouble in past times. I don’t remember anything, but I know it must have been something horrible. I had newspapers in bundles all around me, they had been left up here, but none held any information relating to me. Whatever I had done I wouldn’t do again. People shied away from me when I walked down the street and my parents then decided that it would be better for me and them both if I just stayed up here.

Not only did they lock me away because of my dark past, but they also mocked me by giving me small or useless items. For example, the bed and room were small; the umbrella opened above me was useless since I never could go outside. My past followed me wherever I went, and no one can believe that I’ve changed.

There are now only two things in life that comfort me: reading and writing. I had had two pet rats, but they died during the night about a week ago. Because it had been such a chilly night, up in this attic room with no head, there was nothing I could do. They were named Victor and Hugo. And that was no coincidence.

I was no Hunchback of Notre Dame, but I liked reading about Quasimodo’s situation. I could relate just in the sense that I was locked away from everyone also. I have the book propped open next to my bed at all times.

At least Victor and Hugo had died a fairly peaceful way. Kind of like going to sleep. The heart slowed as the coldness crept in through cracks in the windows, and then their consciousness slowly faded away. I watched them the whole time. I had them lying in front of me, and I was captivated by the ending of a life. Even if I had tried, I couldn’t have saved them, so I just watched them slip away. I was sad but I couldn’t cry, and I’m not sure why. It made me feel abnormal, I felt like I was supposed to cry, but perhaps I just wasn’t sad enough to do it. I placed them both in a box and set it next to my bed under a few books. When summer came around, they’d leave a very unpleasant odor in the air, but I wasn’t allowed to go out and bury them, and I wasn’t about to let my mother throw them away in the garbage.